Through a Glass Darkly
by William Banner
Summary: The Assassin Brotherhood knew the Bleeding Effect was affecting Desmond.  What they didn't know was what the experiments with the Animus was causing.  With new Assassin recruits being found everyday, can the tide finally be turned against Abstergo?
1. Adverse Circumstances

Through a Glass Darkly  
An Assassin's Creed Fanfic

**A/N: Assassin's Creed, Desmond Miles, Abstergo, and anything in the games belongs to Ubisoft, not me. However, Michael Shaw, Richard Hastings, and other soon-to-be-named characters are my property. Reviews will be greatly appreciated!**

Chapter One: Adverse Circumstances

Rain is one of the most irritating of all weather elements. It obscures the sight and deadens the hearing, cutting off the two most important stimuli that humans rely upon to react to their world. It has been used as the excuse for being late to meetings, for holding up a campaign, and, more commonly, for canceling games and races. The man running through the woods, however, entertained no such thoughts. Rain, to him, was nothing more than another obstacle to vault over, much as how heat and wind and night were mere obstacles. It provided an interesting challenge—how does one run through the rain and puddles without completely soaking the shoes? This was his challenge, and, to him, offered a complete blank from the world.

Unknown to the runner, someone else was using the rain as part of a challenge. The woman slowly scanned the trees around her, eyes flitting from path to path. It was a certainty that her target would approach her position; after all, every path in the area converged into one relatively massive intersection. She would either hit her target in the back or as he came to her; either one would fulfill her task. The woman was sitting against a tree clad in mottled tiger-stripe fatigues, with strips of cloth hanging off her to further break up her outline. In her hands was a small rifle, one that would appear for all intents and purposes to be a regular .22 caliber. Appearances, however, were deceiving; the rifle could accurately deliver a 7.62mm mercury-tipped bullet up to a distance of one hundred yards. All the woman needed was a sight picture offering a headshot, and her job would be done.

* * *

The runner banked into one turn rather sharply, and cringed as he felt the twinge of a headache begin behind his eyes. The headaches had been getting worse and worse, coming whenever he was in an emotional situation or when he was pushing the limits of his physical capability. The day hadn't helped at all. He had gotten into an argument with his girlfriend, pressure was mounting from his parents about colleges, and he was taking it out on the run by running near his anaerobic threshold. The runner cursed mentally as the headache erupted from a simmering burn into a raging volcano of pain. Gritting his teeth, the runner charged forward, but then abruptly stopped. Something didn't seem right. He didn't know what it was, but something seemed…different. The headache pulsed again, and the runner bolted. He didn't know what it was, and couldn't understand why he did it, but every instinct within him screamed to dive for cover, and that was what he did. Hitting the dirt, he heard a _thwack_ and felt wood fragments hit the back of his neck. Although not in the military, the runner instinctively knew that he had just been shot at. The headache pulsed yet again, and he bolted up and began running towards the intersection, pushing off the trees and using them as cover. _What the hell is going on?_ He thought. _Why am I doing this?_ It wasn't in his control, however; it was almost like his body was running on autopilot. The runner flew through the brush, making his way inexorably towards his target.

The woman abruptly realized that her plan, such as it was, had been compromised. She had thought that her target would go down without a problem; instead, he had become the manifestation of her worst enemy. _He moves like an Assassin, and a good one at that. I have to finish this now._ Quickly, she slung the rifle and began to move not away from her target, but rather toward him. It was a counter-intuitive move, one that no sane person would expect, but one that had worked for her in the past. Defying human nature, she had learned, often paid great dividends. She could eliminate her target, but it would also reduce her safety margin to zero. It was all worth it, though. If her superiors were right about this man—really just a teenager—then he was just as dangerous and knowledgeable, if not more so, than Desmond Miles.

_I'm not in my own mind. I'm doing things that I could not have done before. And I'm following instructions that don't make sense!_ The runner screamed mentally at himself, unable to stop what has happening. It was as if he could see his assailant through the rain and trees, and knew exactly what had to be done. The runner stopped, making no noise at all. An otherworldly calm descended over the runner, and for a brief moment, it seemed like time had stopped. The sounds of the woods halted like an orchestra suddenly halted in its movements, and objects hung suspended in their paths—which was all that saved the runner. The woman had launched herself from the ground up to him, a push-dagger—_Now how do I know that?_ The runner wondered in the thought process that occasionally accompanies danger—glinting in her fist, cocked back and ready to strike. Time restarted, but it now seemed both slow and fast. The runner's hands moved, grabbing her outstretched arm and using it as an extension of his body, hurling her aside and behind him. The runner ducked at the same time, which was the only thing that prevented the flash of metal from connecting with his throat. The woman barely had time to register the fact that she had miscalculated before physics took over. Already in a parabolic arc, it terminated on a tree, and her neck was at the point of impact. The force behind her caused the bones to fracture, but not fatally so.

Calmly, the runner approached the woman, seeing that she was, for all intents and purposes, incapacitated and soon to be dead. He slowly rolled her over until they could see the other's eyes. In a quick, violent motion, the runner jerked the push-dagger out of her limp hand and placed it against the woman's throat.

"Who sent you? Who ordered you to kill me?" The voice was gravely, deep, like boulders rolling down a hillside. _This isn't my voice—what's happening to me?_ The woman laughed darkly, then grimaced in pain at the movement it caused. "That, Assassin, is for me to know and for you…to not know." True, she could have said something a bit more revealing, but she saw the confusion behind the steely eyes. If she could prevent the target from reaching the Brotherhood, through whatever means, then she could still succeed in her mission. The runner's eyes narrowed, and remained so while he administered the coup d'grace. The woman attempted to gasp, but all she could manage was a muted, blood choked gurgle as the push dagger tore her windpipe, esophagus, and arteries apart.

The headache subsided, and the runner lurched backwards, gasping painfully as the pressure suddenly eased. He stared numbly at the woman's body, slowly leaking blood onto the ground, and his eyes locked on the bloody strip of metal in his hand. Repulsed, he flung it aside and scrambled back, away from the body. Although focused on making a career as a police officer, he had not actually seen a dead body before, and the gaping hole in the body's throat wasn't doing anything to put the boy at ease. The runner's hands started to shake as the adrenaline burned off, and he was barely able to stand. Staring mutely at the macabre tableau, the runner jolted and took off, wanting to put as much distance between him and the body as possible. As he ran off, he kept playing back the sickening feeling of the dagger going into his victim's throat.

* * *

The runner twisted the handle, and the hot water streamed out, pounding his shoulders as he braced himself against the wall. What he had seen, what he had done, was too horrific, too brutal, for him to believe that he had done it. But he had. There was no doubt in the runner's mind that he had killed, that he had felt someone breathe their last by his hand. He didn't understand what had happened. _It's like one moment I'm myself, and the next moment someone else is inside my head and in control of my body. Whatever happened to me, it is not right._ The runner shut the water off, and started drying off. When he looked into the mirror, the haunted eyes of Michael Shaw stared back, unable or unwilling, in the depths of his soul, to deny what had happened.

* * *

"So, she failed." The Templar murmured, glancing down the conference room's length to see all the participants. What he saw on the faces of the assembled security personnel, scientists, and Knights was a uniformly blank expression, but he knew that this was a cover. The tension in the shoulders, the preoccupation with papers or an interesting spot on the wall, and the slight quiver of the eyes told him that all felt fear, in this instance.

"We have had several eliminations go off without a problem or change in circumstances, and now this target, a mere—what, seventeen, eighteen year old?—boy, not only survives, but kills one of our most experienced Knights?" The silence that greeted the rhetorical question was particularly telling. The Templar's words had not been spoken in heat, but rather with all the warmth of an Arctic wind, making them all the more deadly.

"I want answers, people, and I want them yesterday. I don't care what it takes, I want Shaw's life put under an electron microscope. Remember what our intelligence has been saying—if this 'bleeding effect' identified by the Brotherhood is manifesting itself throughout the general population due to our experiments with the Animus, then the Assassins will have a huge new field of recruits. I, for one, refuse to let that come to pass." The Templar rose, and the group followed suit. It was the signal that the meeting was over, but everyone realized that it was only the beginning. They quickly retreated from the boardroom, knowing that their superior would still be brooding for hours.

Richard Hastings stared out of his office window, looking down into the Abstergo compound. He had not started his career in the Templars as an employee of the company, but had instead become their chief operative in the US military, a position he held for nearly ten years, before his premature retirement. On the surface, he was just a security group commander in Abstergo, but he was much more than that. He was the de facto field commander of the spies and Knights, the ones who regularly fought the Assassin Brotherhood. He had learned from the mistakes of his predecessors, more specifically from those of Robert de Sable and Rodrigo Borgia; good command relied not upon micromanagement, but by training and encouraging subordinates to take action before being told. The war of the Templars and Assassins had gone the way of warfare as practiced by the professional militaries of the world; split-second decisions based on new intelligence would prove to be the decisive factor, not the long, drawn-out campaigns of the past.

_Michael Shaw,_ Hastings brooded, watching the light and shadows play across the small garden in the courtyard. _The lad truly does not understand what he knows, what he can do. I told Vidic and Rikkin that this could happen; that our tampering with the ancients' technology could incite this. _It was only a theory, but it was the only thing that Hastings' group had to work on. His group, simply put, had the objective of assassinating the Assassins. They were to be stronger, faster, better trained, and more creative on the field than their opponents. Abstergo's leaders had been skeptical when presented with the operational brief, but Hastings used his legendary stubbornness to good effect. "What good is it," he had said, "to research and use the Pieces of Eden if we have a higher casualty rate than our enemy?" The numbers had woken up the Templar leadership. In the past five engagements with Assassins, the Templars had lost nearly fifty operatives in exchange for one Assassin confirmed dead, and two probables—and those being slim at best. Even the most basic tactician could recognize that such an exchange was not a good one.

Hastings turned back to his desk, where a blinking light signaled a video conference was waiting for him. Sighing, the field commander sat down and took receipt of the call. "Hastings here. Who is it?" The screen was digitally altered in front of him to protect the identity of the caller—a measure in case Abstergo's security had been compromised.

"My voice is my identity, as yours is." The ghostly face on the screen replied, and Hastings knew who he was dealing with: Marcus Ruiz, Gamma team's commander.

"Very well, Gamma. How does the expedition progress?" As an additional measure, the men spoke in terms of a scientific expedition—after all, Abstergo was involved in all different kinds of work, so it provided an easy cover.

"We are making some very surprising discoveries concerning the ancient Hurrians, more specifically in their warrior class. They seemed to be nearly homicidal in battle, or else they were incredibly well-trained." To any outsider, it would sound like an archeological dig had been conducted, but to those in Abstergo who knew of Hastings' 'Red Teams', it concerned the Assassins. The Red Teams brought the fight to their doorsteps, and often into their historical backyards, as well. In this case, 'Hurrians' referred to the Assassins in the Middle East, and 'homicidal' referred to their method of elimination—it had appeared, for all intents and purposes, to simply be a series random murders in an already violent area of the globe. Only those in the secret war, of course, knew what had happened.

"Very interesting, Gamma. I'd like a full report soonest, if you would be so kind. Oh, I just came across something that would be worth investigating. I know it is not your area of expertise, but I thought you would like the change of pace." On screen, Ruiz sat up a bit straighter. He had been placed on Mideast duty for the past four years, and had created a highly effective network of informers and cutouts—to simply go away would potentially undo all that he had accomplished. "It involves an early action of Roger's Rangers, in the French and Indian War. More specifically, a training exercise of theirs. Interested?" Almost immediately, Hastings could see the pleasure in Ruiz's body language. The opportunity to be back in the United States, one of the most secure bases for the Templars? No one would pass that up.

"It definitely sounds interesting, sir; you know that I've always liked these early special warfare units. I'll see what I have to do to wrap up here, and I'll be back with a few of my best people to tackle this new challenge. Gamma, out." Hastings gave a short nod, and the connection was cut.

Still brooding, Hastings went back to the window, and stared down into the peaceful garden. Once, when he was younger, he would often sit out in the garden, pondering the terrible majesty and happy mystery of life and nature. _I suppose that it was the idealist in me, all full of wonder for the world. I never did change back then, did I?_ It had been a place of solace for the young warrior, a place to gather his thoughts and repair his mind from the horrors of war. Now, however, Hastings saw the garden as a piece of order in a chaotic world. _The universe tends towards chaos, it is true. But is order not preferable, not more beneficial, than the clashing of wills which the Assassins support? Can't they see that order has to be brought about through obedience, not argument and divergent thinking?_ Hastings knew that, in a realistic sense, that the Templar Order could never really kill the idea of free will, much as the Assassins could never really kill the idea of order through force. However, the Assassins had forgotten that, when all is said and done, the ends justify the means.


	2. Bleeders

**A/N: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, as well as any characters that make up the canon series. Michael Shaw is my creation, however, and as such is my intellectual property. Please, reviews are greatly appreciated!**

Chapter Two: Bleeders

Darkness. Cold. Pain. Shaw felt his pulse pounding, his mind racing, as he tried to sort out the perceptions around him. They were constantly shifting, leaving him in doubt about what was and what was not. But, through it all, he heard a tone that kept on a constant shriek. He focused on it, knowing it was important but not knowing why. It seemed like he was getting closer and closer to it…

The alarm clock blared its obnoxious, guaranteed-to-raise-the-dead alarm as Shaw finally woke up. Hurriedly realizing what the sound meant, he bounded out of bed and slapped the alarm, killing it. Running a hand over his face, he took a moment to get fully awake. _Gah, I have school today, don't I?_ The teenager ran a hand through his hair, the stress of school coming back to him. And then he remembered. "Oh, shit." He muttered. _Did anyone see me? Did someone find the body? What about the police, do they know? Oh, God._ Shaw started to panic, running through all the possible scenarios that could happen in school that day. Unfortunately for him, most of them didn't end well. _Absorb your fear, let it come at you, wash over you, consume you. Let it disperse, let it pass through, and you will become master of your fate._ The thought came almost unbidden, but Shaw recognized where it was from. His favorite book, _Dune_, had a much more in-depth description of mastering fear, but the paraphrasing was sound. Slowly, Shaw's pulse began to subside as he began 'tactical breathing.' Breath through the nose, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out through the mouth, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Repeat. The exercise brought Shaw down from a state of anxiety and tension, allowing him to focus more solidly upon a test, a race, or a discussion. His father, a Marine turned policeman, had taught him the exercise once it became apparent what Michael's goals had become.

"Okay, let's think this through." Shaw started, as he began to rummage around his room, getting all of his school books into his pack and getting dressed. "One, you were the only one out on the course as practice had been cancelled due to the rain. The girl's team went on their park run, so they don't know about the body, either. Two, the body is off the course, still dressed in that kind-of ghillie suit, so it should be hard to find anyway. And three, the woman had no identifying marks on her uniform, not even a nametag, so initial identification may take some time." Stopping as he pulled on his jeans, Michael pondered what that could mean. _No nametag, no unit markings, no rank insignia. It's common enough for the military to remove such emblems in covert or "black" operations, but this woman didn't seem military—in fact, she seemed a lot like a terrorist; American special ops always operate in teams. And what was this business of calling me "Assassin"? True, I tell the guys to kill the other team in a meet, but actually kill? That only occurred for the first time yesterday._

Thinking about the death of the mysterious woman yesterday, it involuntarily brought back the memory of what had happened to Shaw. On reflection, it was almost like another person had taken over Shaw's body. It was unnerving, but, at the same time, it felt completely natural. Every motion had seemed fluid, had seemed perfectly sensible. But, Shaw knew, on an instinctive level, that what had happened was not natural. One does not simply become a puppet to another's mind; it just couldn't be done. All the 'fringe science' people claimed that mind control was possible, but as far as Shaw knew, no conclusive proof had appeared. He felt that what had happened, though, had some kind of explanation; he just wasn't sure what it was yet. Shaking his head in frustration, Shaw finished packing up his gear. Perhaps answers would come to him throughout the day, as was his mind's habit.

* * *

The day passed by slowly for Shaw. Lectures in English, labs in Forensics, and a test in Statistics all conspired to make him nod off, or at least lose his focus. The last class of the day, though, made him sit bolt upright, and not only because of the subject. International Relations, one of the few history classes Shaw could take anymore after excelling in previous ones, always had something to fight with. It didn't matter if the topic was American military operations in the Middle East or domestic political disputes, the class would reduced to a shouting match and very nearly a couple of fistfights. With his knowledge of military operations and strategies, Shaw was able to 'snipe' his classmates, as the current expression went. However, the second reason that Shaw had a high level of awareness was that this was the only class he had with his girlfriend. Emily Willows, for Shaw, was a rather recent development in his life.

A five foot four, brown haired and green eyed whirlwind of energy, Emily was just as sharp, if not more so, than Shaw and had the credentials to back it up—multiple scores of '5' on her AP examinations, the Girl Scouts' Gold Award, and, most important to Shaw, a tendency to ask about anything and everything. Many classmates had determined the match to be all but pre-ordained—after all, the Eagle Scout and the Gold Award recipient had to eventually realize that they made a pretty good match, if they could manage their differences. Remembering the joke, Shaw winced a bit internally. Emily wasn't as supportive as his parents of his goal of entering the military, and her parents were just as bad, if not more—both had been involved in anti-war protests in their younger days. But, in all fairness, their political differences mattered very little. Both saw the idealist in the other, and the genuine desire to do good deeds in the world. Combined with their sense of purpose and motivation, the two students made a rather attractive couple.

"Mr. Shaw, would you care to comment on the maneuvers? Mr. Shaw!" Michael realized that he had been staring a bit too blatantly at Emily, and he blushed as the class laughed at him. Willows gave an embarrassed smile, as if to say, _Oh, don't mind him. Just a typical male._ Shaw, chagrined, did his best to salvage the situation.

"Yes, Ms. Hartley? I assume you mean the recent maneuvers by Seventh Fleet off of Korea?" The laughter stopped as the class realized that, even if Shaw's brain had been ruled by thoughts of his girlfriend for the past few minutes, he was still able to name the specific fleet and area of maneuvers. It was a talent that he had shown on multiple occasions, but it still surprised them every time he used it. Shaw grinned like a loon as he saw Ms. Hartley begin to fume. An attractive twenty-eight year old, Jenny Hartley had been aiming at shooting down Shaw at any opportunity she could get, but thus far had failed upon every occasion. Knowing full well of both her anti-military views and her reputation as a feminist (And therefore anything a guy said was Wrong), Shaw decided to twist the knife of his reply a little deeper.

"I say that the Navy has shown that it still has some capacity to blast anyone they want back into the Stone Age. The North Koreans can bluster all they want, but just the surface combatant and air arm components of Seventh Fleet could kill almost every piece of military hardware north of the DMZ and south of the Yalu. And, more to the point, the maneuvers also serve the purpose of letting China know that she is still a large fish in a small pond. So long as we can control the seas, we can thrash anyone we please." Shaw smiled much as the Buddha did as Hartley attempted to come up with a reply, but failed to do so as she realized that the class was watching the debate closely. Everyone knew Shaw's reputation as the resident military expert, and everyone also knew that any time Ms. Hartley attempted to comment upon the military situation, she always failed.

"Mr. Shaw, I would like to remind you that we try to avoid bold, unsubstantiated pronouncements like the one you just made. America's time is ending, whether you like it or not, and you have to adapt to a changing world." Ms. Hartley quickly turned to launch another question at a student, before Michael could attempt to deconstruct her reasoning. Chalking the argument up as a victory for him, given the qualifier at the end of his statement, Michael leaned back in his seat and examined the class. They weren't a bad sort, really. There was the usual mix of slackers and overachievers, the jocks and the geeks, the jerks and the too-nice people. About the only characteristic of the class that he could really identify was that a majority of them identified either with the Republican Party or with a modern-day conservative ideology. With the notable exception of Emily, who could at least put forth some very good reasons for her beliefs, the remaining Democrats and liberals seemed to place blind path in their ideology, not bothering to cite facts and statistics. _Oh, well. The more things change, the more they stay the same._

Just then, the bell rang, and the teenagers began rushing to pack their bags and head for the door; it was a Friday, after all. As he quickly put away his books, Shaw glanced quickly at Emily. She nodded, and flashed a surreptitious 'V' with her fingers—their signal to meet in private. Shaw nodded, but he felt his blood run cold. It wasn't that he was afraid of Emily; rather, he was afraid of what she had to say. The fight they had been in yesterday hadn't been the prettiest. In fact, she had called him a 'fascist stormtrooper', a remark which caused Shaw to wince internally whenever he thought about it. To be honest, the best way to handle that remark wasn't to blow up and call Emily an 'ignorant bimbo', despite the satisfaction that he had gotten from it at the time. He prayed to God that he hadn't shot himself in the foot with this, his first serious relationship.

Walking outside the building, he strolled casually to a bench in the courtyard, and promptly opened up a book, becoming invisible as the crowd of students swirled around him. The drill was simple; one of the couple would sit on the bench and, when the students had vacated the area, the other would sit down with them. Some found the arrangement odd, but it enabled them to have conversations that others would have otherwise eavesdropped upon. Today, it took a little longer for the students to clear out, probably because they were all confirming weekend plans. Finally, after nearly ten minutes, it became as still as a church after the final service. Hearing a soft _click_, Michael looked up to see Emily approaching him, a blank look on her face. Apparently, this wasn't going to be easy.

"Michael."

"Emily." An awkward silence hung in the air between the two, neither one wanting to start the conversation that had to run its course. Seeing no other choice, Michael began.

"I want to apologize for my…conduct, yesterday. It was highly inappropriate of me, and I shouldn't have insulted you like I did. It's just…you worked me up. You pressed the buttons that you knew would provoke me, and I lashed out without thinking of who I would hurt. Please, Emily, I still love you. You know that, and I know that you know that. I'm sorry that I did this—" Emily sat down next to Michael and placed a finger on his lips.

"Michael, I know. I should really be the one apologizing. It had been a long day for me, I wasn't feeling all that good, and the force of nature known as PMS was going at full force." Michael winced a bit at the mention of the female-only fluctuation of hormones and attitudes, but said nothing as she continued. "You know that I don't like what you're going to do; I've never made it known otherwise. But, I hope you see that I respect you for holding to your beliefs, no matter what anyone thinks—not even what I think of them." She kissed him on the check, and the ice broke between them. The fight forgotten, Michael wrapped his arm around her, and she was content to lean her head against his chest.

"Are you doing anything tonight? I was thinking that we could catch dinner at that new Italian place in town." Emily said, drawing warmth from the runner's lean body. It was curious to see the contrast between what he looked like and what he felt like, Emily thought. Michael looked like a skinny, all arms-and-legs, six foot three senior, but there was a grace to his movements, like a dancer's. Instead of simply skin and bones, there was lean, hard muscle underneath his clothes, the product of the Marine Corps' exercise regime and his running. Idly, she wondered if she would ever see his abs—she could feel them, but had never seen them. His reply broke her reverie.

"I'd love to go out, but I can't. I promised my parents that I would be home tonight; I haven't been sleeping well, and want to get to bed early. Maybe tomorrow, though. You know that I love Italian food, but maybe not as much as I love you." Emily laughed and threw a light punch at the runner for the comment, which he easily blocked. "Call me tomorrow, Emily, and I'll see what I can do. That is, assuming you're free?" He asked, arching an eyebrow. Seeing her nod in the affirmative, he grinned. "Excellent. I have to get going; practice begins in a few. Stay safe, and stay sharp, okay?" It was his traditional good-bye, and the two parted smiling, each looking forward to Saturday.

* * *

Shaw walked back to the gym slowly, arms and legs exhausted. A seven-mile run, combined with ten sets of twenty-five push-ups and sit-ups, made him drunk with fatigue. His mind, however, was racing along at a hundred miles per hour. _What to do about this?_ He asked himself silently, thinking about his…transformation, for lack of a better word. As the day had progressed, Shaw found himself analyzing the memory, finding more to it than he previously had seen. The way he had moved, for example, was reminiscent of Parkour, the art of using the environment not as an obstacle, but as a highway of sorts, a means to get from point A to point B quickly and efficiently. Another detail that he had recounted was that the voice he had spoken with had, surprisingly enough, a German accent to it. Shaw didn't know what to make of it, but he felt that it was important. He also remembered a bit more about the woman who had attempted to kill him. She had said called him "Assassin", almost like it was a title, not a synonym for murderer. Combined, the three pieces of information were just strange enough that, normally, they wouldn't have any link, but Michael was convinced that they did.

Walking out to his car, Shaw pondered what the link could be. He had read of the historical Assassins, who really seemed like terrorists who came about before it could be effective. Just one sleeper agent, and they could topple an entire kingdom. But, they were too open about their actions, and made many powerful enemies. As far as Shaw could determine from his studies of history, the Assassins had been eradicated sometime in the thirteenth century, most likely by Arab or Muslim forces of some sort. Of course, the idea of assassins hadn't died with them. In fact, it was still a strong tradition in politics and the world of covert ops—one only had to look at the list of politicians and commanders that had died at the hands of one lone, dedicated operative, political or otherwise. Lincoln, Trotsky, Duvalier, possibly Stalin, JFK—the list went on and on.

Of course, those were only the ones that were a matter of public record. Shaw was certain that the United States had assassinated many more people than SOCOM or the White House would want to admit, and for good reason. The United States disapproved of such methods, and generally tried to adhere to international law whenever applicable. Frowning at the thought, he went to open up his car door, and promptly froze. Something didn't seem right, but Shaw couldn't place what it was. His headaches began again, and Shaw pressed a palm against his head in an effort to relieve the pressure. As he did so, the world seemed to become brighter, more in focus than it had been before. His eyes zeroed in on a spot in front of him, where he could see a glint of light reflecting off of something.

_Scope! Take cover!_ His mind screamed at him. Once again, it was like his body was on autopilot. He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, disappearing behind the bulk of his car's engine. The blood began to pound in his ears, the adrenaline began to flow, but Shaw did not panic. Instead, he felt calmly focused, at peace with himself. He felt the contentment not of the hunted, but of the hunter. Slowly, almost lazily, he walked in a crouch to the rear door of his car. Waiting a few seconds, he flung his hat up and over the car, away from him, and took off to the next car, sneaking a peak at where the glint had come from. To his considerable surprise, he saw a man in the same camouflage attire he had seen yesterday start running away from him, carrying what Shaw's eyes confirmed to be a rifle with a telescopic sight. _Don't let him escape! Catch him, question him!_ The strange voice in Shaw's head commanded, and Shaw obeyed.

He suddenly began running across the parking lot, leaping from car to car in an effort to catch up with the man. The uniformed man was in good shape, but he was discounting the fact that, first, Shaw was in much better shape for running, and second, that he was burdened with a rifle and a small pack. Before the man could reach the relative safety of the treeline, Shaw was five meters distant from him. Taking a leap off of the last car, Shaw straightened in flight and aimed his boots to strike the man between the shoulder blades. The maneuver almost worked, but not quite. Instead of landing on top of the man, Shaw kicked his legs out from under him, getting tangled in the process. With an unceremonious crash, both teenager and man hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. Wasting no time, the man attempted to get up, but found his legs swept out from under him again. Shaw flipped the man face-first into the dirt, and twisted his arm around behind his back, causing his shoulder to dislocate with a sickening _pop_. The man screamed into the dirt, but the area was deserted.

"Who sent you? Why are you here?" Once again, the German-accented English came through, confirming what Michael had thought. Whenever this 'persona' took over, it seemed to be a German speaker. The man groaned, but didn't say anything. Shaw wrenched the arm back further, and the man gasped in pain.

"Beta! Beta sent me to watch you!" He was desperate, terrified, of what might happen to him. He had no idea that Shaw wasn't quite so sure what was going to happen; all of his actions were being governed by this new persona.

"Beta, hmm? Well, if you meet him in hell, give him my regards, Templar." Shaw had just enough time to feel the man's muscles tense in fear before his hands moved rapidly. Gripping the man's chin and head, he twisted the neck violently, resulting in a sharp, quick _snap_ as the vertebral column was broken. The man jerked a bit, and then relaxed into death's embrace. Just as suddenly as it had emerged, this new presence faded back, and Shaw was left crouching over a dead body. Cursing, he dragged the body into the trees, moving quickly just in case someone was watching. Piling leaves, sticks, and whatever else he could find over the body, Shaw pondered what the man had said. _Who or what is 'Beta'? Is it a team, the codename for a person, or a red herring? And what was with that reference to 'Templar'? What the hell does that mean?_ In a matter of minutes, the body looked like a little hillock, nothing so out of the ordinary where he lived. Sitting down next to a tree, Shaw looked at the rifle the man had been carrying.

_M40A3, standard issue to the Marines,_ his mind reported. _7.62mm, range of about eight hundred meters. Can seriously ruin anyone's day in the right hands._ Contrary to what most video games assumed, a shot from a sniper rifle anywhere, while not instantly fatal, would definitely be enough to place someone out of action for the duration of the firefight, if not longer. If that man had sent only a single shot at Shaw, he very well could have killed the teenager. Although not uncommon in civilian markets, it was definitely curious to find one with all the military bells and whistles, which this rifle had. Bipod, military-grade scope, camouflage scheme, it was all there. Whoever this "Beta" was, he or they had access to at least military-surplus hardware, maybe even high military grade equipment. Shaw's hands wandered over the rifle, working the strange mechanisms. Fumbling about, he extracted the bolt and began to remove the working parts—spring, firing pin, trigger, optics. Putting the various parts in his jacket pocket, he walked through the woods, dropping them at random. If the parts could be scattered widely enough, no one would think anything of it, except, of course, the rifle. Not much could be done about that, however, except to hide it and hide it well. As a compromise, Michael decided to simply hurl the rifle as far away as he could, careful not to touch it any more than necessary. The gruesome tasks completed, he walked away from the wood, shaking as he did so.

_This is the second time that I have killed in cold blood. What the hell is going on?_ Shaw wondered if he had developed some kind of multiple personality disorder; it certainly had been documented before in his family. But, what was more terrifying to Shaw was that he was being watched. It wasn't government, at least it didn't seem like it; they would probably have the good grace to flash a badge at him before attempting to kill him. If it was a military unit, it was either foreign or a very special one that avoided the legal restrictions of operating within American borders. Of course, there was the idea of a private entity as well, and this gave Shaw the most concern. If it was a private entity, then they had no need to obey the law, and would act as they saw fit. Lowering his frame into his car, Shaw drove away, troubled by the picture that was slowly assembling itself before his eyes. If he didn't figure out what was going on, a lot of people would be hurt.

* * *

Pulling into his driveway, Shaw's eyes flitted over his house. A modest two-story affair, the light grey house seemed to be unoccupied, a fact emphasized by the fact that both his father's truck and his mother's car were missing. Nodding to himself, Shaw parked and grabbed his gear, intent on simply crashing as soon as he crossed the threshold. The week had been a long one for him, the past two days especially so. Idly, he thought that there should be a law stating that teenagers are due a certain amount of rest, but the thought failed to lighten his mood. Walking through the house, Shaw suddenly felt the fatigue hit his legs. Dropping his pack by the computer, he slowly made his way into the den. Perhaps, if he just stretched out his legs, he wouldn't be as tired. The teen eased his head back onto the couch, his feet dangling over the other end. Closing his eyes, Shaw reflected on the week. Overall, it had gone well, with the exception of the past two days. He had managed to get over his fight with Emily, not get his parents on his case for anything, and even get a few college essays done—not well, admittedly, but done nonetheless. There had only been one meet that week, and his lads had done well, with a few PRs coming in from the newer guys and the upper-tier runners approaching their mid-season goals. Shaw's mind was already focused on indoor track, the training schedule and his goals there; one could safely claim, and Emily would sadly corroborate, that running ruled his life.

"What I would give for an uninterrupted sleep," Michael murmured to himself. As of late, he had been sleeping rather poorly, despite the absence of poor performance in school or on the racing course. Shaw attributed it to an increased tempo in activity, but the headaches could also be a contributor. _It seems like those headaches are the source of everything, isn't it? Wait…_ Shaw's eyes flew open, his mental antennae twitching in anticipation. _That's the common denominator! Each time I have a headache, this new personality makes an appearance, and each time I've had a headache, the stressor has been of human design. But, what could it mean?_ His brow furrowed in thought, Michael stared at the ceiling, trying to puzzle out the meaning of what he had just realized. He ran through what little he knew. Templars, Assassins, some sort of special ops unit, possibly foreign, and a person or persons known as 'Beta'. Try as he might, though, the pieces of data simply did not make sense. He was missing something, something important that would provide a common link through all of them.

* * *

Rebecca Crane muttered to herself as she looked over the records on her screen, showing everything about her new subject. School records, college applications, even a small file had been compiled by the American military on the subject. What was interesting, however, was that portions of his DNA matched those of other Assassins, including some of the best field operatives they had, indicating that somewhere in his ancestry was, perhaps, an Assassin. Checking the records, Rebecca's eyes widened when she saw that no one in his immediate or extended family had been with the Brotherhood for at least three generations. Factoring in the reports of their agent on-scene within the school that meant…

"Shaun, I think we have another Bleeder!" Shaun's head whipped around at the shout, and part of his mind wondered about what the hell his colleague was so excited about. Then it hit him with all the subtlety of a battering ram. If Rebecca was right—and she was rarely wrong—then the pattern that they had been seeing wasn't random, but somehow related. It didn't matter who it was striking, the pattern remained the same: Teenagers who were related, somehow, to the Assassins by blood, but who had never been in the hidden communities. Shaun didn't know what the reason was, but apparently Rebecca and her techs knew, and were both excited and scared of what was happening.

"All right, Rebecca. Confirm with your contacts about this kid, and we'll see if we can contact him if the reports come back positive. God knows we need more Assassins, despite what we're doing with Lucy." Chewing on a pen, he glanced at her latest report; apparently, Vidic was taking things slow with Desmond, having a very specific target in mind this time compared to the all-out search with Sixteen. The problem now, of course, was getting Desmond out of there once the time came—and, for that matter, Lucy. As he had said, more Assassins were needed, and the existing ones were treasured assets, to be used only when absolutely necessary. Lucy was such an example—a sleeper sent to penetrate Abstergo for a mission just like this, to get inside the enemy's compound and learn his thoughts, his plans, his chains of command and control. All over America and Europe, a network was forming of Abstergo's operations and aims. It seemed like their arms stretched everywhere—from medicinal research in South America to scientific studies in the Antarctic to archeological digs in Siberia. There didn't seem to be a common factor, but Shaun knew that it was there. It was always the one little fact, overlooked and hidden in the data that would make sense of what appeared to be a chaotic set of information. The problem, of course, was finding the bugger in the first place. Shaun lived for that search, though. Even if he was an Assassin, his superiors had deemed it necessary that he take on the role of an analyst, despite his satisfactory mission performances while on the teams.

"Okay, Shaun. I sent it out to the rest of my geeks, and they're all telling me the same thing: Michael Shaw is a match for the Bleeder profile. It's no coincidence now—this is the tenth case to cross our path of this occurring, all of them in teenagers. I think I should bump this up the chain, and recommend immediate action on the entire lot." Rebecca leaned back from her computer and interlaced her fingers behind her head, looking at Shaun with a satisfied smile. Shaun, for his part, simply began rubbing his chin, thinking about what Crane had said. For a long time, he didn't give any indication of what was going through his mind. At length, he spoke.

"Yes…Go ahead and do that, love. Send it to Alexei, if you will be so kind. I think he'll know what to do with the information…You know what, send it and I'll try to get a hold of him." Turning back to his own array of computers, Shaun's fingers began flying, enacting encryption protocols and opening up secure lines across the internet. Handshakes were exchanged, VoIP codes ran back and forth, and the computer's webcam light lit up, indicating a live stream. On screen, a window opened up, displaying the face of a man, weathered and lined with age, but still strong and a bit intimidating. A graying mustache and salt-and-pepper hair were the most prominent features on the man, until one looked at his eyes. A blue so dark they were nearly black, they seemed to penetrate Shaun's soul, even over a computer link.

"_Da_, what is it?" Alexei Ivanovich Gorshkov was not known for pleasantries. If someone called him, they were well-advised to begin talking, and talking fast. Shaun nodded in greeting and began.

"Alexei, I think we have confirmation of what Abstergo's documents have predicted. I have ten reports sitting here on my tech's computer, each detailing what we're now calling 'Bleeders'—people who manifest abilities of Assassin ancestors, but whose families have not been involved with the Assassins for several generations. It seems to be an effect similar to the Animus, but without living the memories of the ancestor. I suggest that we contact these people, and ask them to join the Brotherhood, or take them by force. We need more Assassins, and these people represent a tremendous asset to us, as well as a security risk—what if Abstergo picks up on this and brings them in? Who knows what they'll find out about the Pieces of Eden?" Shaun wasn't sure if he was getting through to Alexei; the man's face didn't move a muscle, and the gleam in his eyes didn't change, either. Slowly, the man on-screen nodded.

"Very well, _tovarich_. I'll see what I can do on my end here. In the meantime, concentrate on readying the new Animus, and keep tabs on Lucy. I don't want one of my students to wind up dead because of a sloppy support team, you understand?" The steel in the old man's voice was manifest, and Shaun nodded quickly before signing off. It was out of his hands, now. For his part, Shaun hoped this Michael Shaw and the others like him were worth it, or else Abstergo would exploit the weakness and hurt the Brotherhood severely. Only time could tell, he knew. Only time.


	3. The Truth

**A/N: Sorry that I broke my promise; the inspiration comes in fits and starts, and school is getting worse, not better. I appreciate the favorites and reviews, but please—I want more reviews; they're like the crack cocaine of writers. **

**Disclaimers: I don't own Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed II, or Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood. Those are property of Ubisoft Montreal. Michael Shaw, Richard Hastings et al, are my creations, though.**

Chapter Three: The Truth

Hastings leaned back in his chair, looking over the latest update from Vidic. Apparently, the new subject's ancestor was in the Crusades, and fighting directly against the Templars. Cursing himself, Hastings felt an itch to break something. _Of course this has to happen—the instant I pull off the team working the Middle East, our wonderful scientist just HAS to have a subject focusing on the Middle East. Just perfect._ Murphy's Law, it seemed, still wrecked the best-laid plans of mice and men, as the old saying went. Slowly, ever so slowly, Hastings forced himself to calm down. Only so much could be controlled by humans, only so much could be predicted and shaped by the human hand. That knowledge, however, did nothing to diminish the rage that the Templar felt as well.

"I told Beta to wait, to observe from a distance. Instead, he sends out a man with a rifle. How to deal with him?" The cold tone had entered his voice again, and the secretary in the outer room cautiously inched her head around the corner, unsure if her superior was speaking to her or not. Hastings noticed her, and smiled thinly, waving his hand in dismissal. His habit of speaking aloud had only gotten worse as he had aged, but it helped him think. Rising and closing the door, Hastings resorted to pacing instead. Despite what he thought of what it showed—an indecisive, hesitant leadership style—the practice also helped him think. The conundrum that Shaw posed to him was unlike anything that he had taken on before. Yes, Hastings had killed his fair share of Assassins and their allies, but those were different. They were willing fighters in the secret war; they knew the risks and the possible consequences that went with them. This, though…

"He's just a child, caught up in something that he cannot possibly understand. But, his knowledge makes him dangerous. Knowing how the Assassins work, it will only be a matter of time before they contact him. Assuming equal capabilities, they also know where he lives, and they might also know why we are interested in him." Hastings stopped and furrowed his brow in thought. If the Assassins also knew of Shaw, and were to get in contact with him…A predatory smile grew on the man's face. It was a grin that would have been recognized the world over by any warrior. It meant that somewhere, somehow, someone was going to die. It was a grin that had lit up his face in Panama, launching an ambush against some of Noriega's best, and then later in Iraq, assaulting a Scud missile site with the Green Berets. It was the smile of a predator who saw a way to maximize his chances of success. He quickly strode over to his desk phone and punched in the number.

"Gamma? Good. Listen, I need you back at headquarters immediately…No, it's not anything that the bosses disapprove of; I have some new information I want to discuss with you…Very well. May the Father of understanding guide us, Gamma."

* * *

A door slammed distantly, and Michael's eyes flew open at the sound. He had fallen asleep on the couch, a fact made plainly obvious by the newcomer.

"Michael, why are you sleeping on the couch? You have a bed, you know." His mother said with a tone of humor, already beginning to bustle around the kitchen as Michael sat up groggily.

"Mom, have some pity. You know that we had practice today, and I'm not really sleeping well, so any naps I can grab I will gladly take. Now, what's for dinner?" He asked, the teenager's presence asserting itself in his mind firmly. _As long as this Assassin doesn't…._ His mother seemed to ignore the quick flash of worry over her son's face, and addressed his question even as she began preparations.

"Your father thinks that fajitas would be a good change from our usual of pasta and Italian. I know, I know," she began as Michael shot her a look of mock horror, "Carbo-loading is really important for you, but you can only do so much with pasta and related foods. Mixing things up is good, you know that!" Grinning, Michael conceded defeat and went to pick up his schoolbooks from the computer; it drove his father mad to see the clutter by the computer, but it was simply part of Michael's personality. It was like trying to make the sky change color, his father had once remarked—it required an act of God to clean up his books and various papers in order for anyone else to work there. Moving the books upstairs to his room, Michael felt the beginnings of a thought bouncing around in the back of his head.

_Assassins and Templars…Is there a common link through history? Is it possible that both survived?_ Michael frowned as he began to clean his room. True, the Assassin Order had been eliminated sometime during or after the Crusades, but what about the Templars? There were all sorts of crazy conspiracy theories running around about them. Shaw knew that there was a military order known as the Templars, and figured that was a good place to begin. _Wikipedia, here I come._ One of the more irritating facets of Shaw's personality was his inability to let a problem or question drop. It had resulted in more than a few awkward moments for his friends, but it was effective, nonetheless. Nearly running down the stairs, Shaw booted the computer up and began writing down on a piece of paper what the possible search terms were.

"Templars, Assassins, Crusades, conspiracy…religion," Shaw said, almost as an afterthought. Who knew if it could turn up something interesting? Shaw was simply following his gut instincts, knowing that they were usually right. What he got, however, was something different entirely. True, there were results on serious research concerning both the Knights Templar and Assassins, notably centering in and around the Holy Land, but most of the search results were the meaningless conspiracy theories about the Templars and 'world domination and enslavement', as one site had put it. Shaking his head, Shaw decided to concentrate only on the Templars themselves. Reading through their history, especially in the period after the Crusades and the origin of Friday the Thirteenth, Shaw found himself wondering how the Templars could even have survived. What the Vatican pulled back then was slick, not to mention overly cruel and cunning. Leaning back in his chair, Shaw reflected upon their history. It seemed almost cyclical, to his way of thinking. A non-entity order of warrior-monks rising to prominence, playing a huge hand in the Third Crusade, and then fading to obscurity as the Church saw them as a threat, and took appropriate measures.

_A pattern that has, I'm afraid, been repeated throughout history. People fear what they do not understand._ As far as Shaw was concerned, that was it. But, if the Templars had died out in 1312, did this indicate that the persona also inhabiting his mind was from that time period? Was he, perhaps, a Teutonic Knight, a rival order? It seemed plausible; the Teutonic Order benefitted greatly from the demise of the Templars, but so did many other religious orders. Sighing, Michael began to shut down the computer, thinking that the information he had gathered only raised more questions, rather than answering them. Out of habit, though, he checked his e-mail, idly wondering if he had gotten any interesting mail from colleges. Sadly, the colleges that did send him mail were not ones he was interested in. As he was about to exit out, a new e-mail came through, sounding the _ping_ indicative of what his computer classified as priority mail.

_No e-mail address, no name of sender, but what's this?_ The e-mail's title was only "Recruitment". Not trusting what the computer said, he hit the 'Scan' button on the e-mail, checking it for viruses, Trojan horses, or anything else like that. When the scan came back negative, his interest was piqued. Opening the e-mail, he saw nothing but gibberish. It looked like someone had scrambled the message around completely, resulting in what seemed like nonsense. The beginning of the e-mail, though, was a question, with its requisite answer box.

"Who defeated Napoleon in Russia?" The question read. Curious, Shaw read the question again. He realized that it was a trick; no one had actually beaten Napoleon, any halfway competent student of history knew that…

The key was Russia, Shaw realized. Smiling, he recalled a phrase that his history class had come up with regarding Russia:

_Whatever you do, don't fuck with General Winter!_

Typing in "General Winter" for the answer, he clicked outside the box, and the e-mail transformed radically before his eyes. One moment it was a scrambled mass of letters; with a blink of the screen, it had resolved into a coherent screen of sentences and paragraphs. What he saw, however, still didn't make sense.

_This has gotta be some kind of joke. "We invite you to join the Brotherhood, to ensure peace and freedom"? Yeah, right. And I doubt they'll actually visit me…_Shaw made the cursor move to delete the message, convinced that it was some kind of spam or joke message. The mouse stopped moving, however, when he heard his mother's voice.

"Michael, there are two men here to see you; they say it's important!"

Stiffly walking into the den, Michael saw the two men in question seated on opposite ends of the couch. Before he even made a sound, however, the two stood and turned around. The look in their eyes made Michael stop in shock. It wasn't the warm look of greeting that he had been expecting. Instead, both men's eyes had that gleam of wariness and absolute self-confidence that he had seen in his father's eyes, after he had been told that his SWAT unit was being mobilized. The three stood, staring at each other, until the elder of the two visitors cleared his throat.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Shaw. Wouldn't you sit down?" The accent was British, of London, if Shaw wasn't mistaken. As he slowly made his way the indicated chair, Shaw sized up the man. Average height, graying hair, physique of a rugby player and probably as strong and fast, too. Although Shaw couldn't see any weapons, he felt that the Englishman didn't walk about unarmed very often. His companion was a stark contrast: Short, dark-skinned, dark-haired, and the physique of a swimmer. Nevertheless, Shaw also felt that this was a man most would not want to trifle with, reinforced by the obvious steel in the shorter man's eyes. The Englishman didn't waste any time, speaking as soon as Shaw sat down.

"My name is Collin Burroughs, and my colleague here is Christian Guttierez." Guttierez simply nodded, but otherwise remained mute; Shaw wondered if the man could speak English. "As you may imagine, our organization is highly interested in you, and wants to invite you into our ranks. Are you interested?" Shaw stared at the man as if he had two heads, a tail, and was speaking in a completely new language. The silence that hung in the air after Burroughs finished speaking quickly became awkward, when it became apparent that Shaw wasn't going to speak. Chuckling, Guttierez spoke, to Shaw's surprise.

"My friend, I think that he still doesn't understand." Contrary to Shaw's expectations, Guttierez spoke flawless English, with the characteristic drawl of the American southwest.

"Mr. Shaw, what my English colleague here is trying to say is that you have a skill set that we value, and, more to the point, want to cultivate. However, should you accept our offer, I can't guarantee that your life will be safe. You will be trained, you will be sent on assignment, and you _might _come back alive." Guttierez checked to see that he had Shaw's attention. Still, the silence hung in the air.

Burroughs looked nervously at Guttierez, who looked back at his colleague, uncertain. Clearly, they had never met someone who tried to process everything they said.

"One question." The first words that Shaw spoke startled the two, after such a long silence. "Just _who_ the hell are you people? Assassins?" That startled the two men, who often recruited people who had no idea who they were. That confirmed it for Shaw, who let slip a small grin of triumph. Burroughs, typically of an Englishman, recovered first.

"You…know who we are?" he asked, after a slight pause. Shaw snorted in good humor.

"Please. From what I've read of the Templars, they would have barged in here with automatic rifles and taken me away. They certainly did that during the Crusades with anything they wanted; if they still exist today, why should they change that which made them successful? No, I say that you are Assassins. You are subtle, never naming your organization, but you have the look of killers about you. Moreover, you each have one pistol concealed on your person, as well as at least two knives and one…armguard, I'm tempted to say, that is also probably a weapon. Only an assassin would take such measures of concealment. Did I miss anything?" If the two men had been startled before, they were downright scared by now. Burroughs went white as a sheet, while Guttierez look like he was about to burst a blood vessel out of anger. Smiling, Shaw raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm the son of a police officer who was a Marine, gentlemen. I know a thing or two about concealment." Shaw looked at the two men levelly. "Now, I think I know why you are here, but I must ask: Why me? Why should I trust you gentlemen?" The statement hung in the air, unanswered. Shaw could see that the question made the two men uncomfortable. The subtle flashes of concern, worry, and anger over their faces told Shaw all that he needed. He left it up to the two, however, to answer it.

Sighing, Guttierez leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and speaking lowly, seriously, keeping eye contact with Shaw the entire time.

"Mr. Shaw, I'm going to be blunt with you. Our organization is under attack, physical attack, from the Templars. Every day, we lose agents and teams to them. We hide our losses well, but we're close to collapse. We have identified several other individuals like yourself who can give us the means to recover, maybe even stop the attacks. Your skill set is very rare amongst our agents. Quite frankly, if you don't accept our offer, you run the risk of death." That got Shaw's attention, and Guttierez could see it.

"You think the Templars will abide by your decision to remain neutral? Kid, in my years with the Brotherhood, I've seen entire families butchered to prevent word of their activities from spreading. Before that, in the military, I saw villages and clans massacred just so the local nutjob could secure his power. If you accept our offer, we can protect your family."

Shaw looked at the two men. It seemed that Guttierez was older, even if he looked the younger of the two; more significantly, he answered the tougher questions, indicating seniority. He couldn't place it, but Shaw felt that he could trust the men. The men 'gave off the right vibes', as his father would say, and instinct was the best judge of character, Shaw had learned.

"Very well, sir. I suppose I can trust you two gentlemen, as well as understand the 'what' and 'how' of your situation. But that still doesn't answer the 'why' of this entire muddle. What makes me so special that I would be singled out?" Once again, Guttierez was the one to handle it. Reaching slowly into his pocket, he pulled out what looked like an iPhone, or something similar. After touching the screen for a few seconds, he slid the device over to Shaw across the table.

Gingerly picking the device up, Shaw looked at what was on the screen. It appeared to be some kind of medical report—His, in fact, once he zoomed in on the image. A bit shocked and instantly wary, Shaw scrolled down through the rest of the report. _Genetic memory…DNA markers…Hold on, what does this say?_ He looked up, certain that he had been played for a fool.

"Say what, now?" The teenager slid the device across to the two Assassins. Burroughs looked at it and nodded, as if it confirmed what he suspected.

"Mr. Shaw, you are a descendant of an Assassin, even if you don't know it. The theory of 'genetic memory' is a relatively recent one, which we explored on our own—the original research isn't ours, you see. Simply put, your memories can be accessed through your DNA through the interaction of certain genetic markers, because certain human instincts, based upon the experiences of our ancestors, have been passed down and absorbed in a 'collective unconscious' that is physical, not merely a mental concept thought up by Jung.

"Based upon these markers, you have been related to an especially skilled Assassin, one who was particularly successful. Due to this, we feel that you can learn a lot from his genetic memories, and be able to use those skills in real life. Do you understand what we are offering? We can give you the chance to let you gain an exponentially greater level of competence with your existing skill set, as well as expanding and refining it." Burroughs fell silent, watching the teenager in front of him.

Once again, silence reigned in the air between the three. Although Michael had been subject to information that had caused him to do a double take, he had never encountered information with the slamming unreality of this. It seemed almost…fake, like a piece of particularly good fiction. Yet, he could still see the blood of the woman come out of the dagger wound; he could still hear the man's vertebral column snap. And, most disturbing of all, he could still hear that accented English: _Well, if you meet him in hell, give him my regards, Templar._

"Very well. What do I need to do?" The teenager asked quietly, looking down at his hands. He missed the sad smile that the two Assassins exchanged, and Guttierez spoke.

"We'll explain this to your parents, son. We'll give you a few days to get your affairs in order, and then you'll be leaving with us. We have a few more people to visit, but we'll stay in touch with you. Think you can do that?" Nodding slowly, Shaw nodded, well aware that what he had done would forever alter his life.

"And what of my family? My loved ones?" Guttierez glanced up and saw the picture of Emily and Michael on the mantel; they had their arms around each other, taken just before the Winter Formal.

"We'll relocate your parents, make sure that they have new names and no connections to your home here. We'll try to ensure that your parents will have a job, as well as training them in self-defense. You girlfriend, though…I'm not sure. We can't spare the assets, I think, because we don't have many. You might have to break it off. Are you sure about this?" Guttierez asked, suddenly concerned for the kid in front of him. He had said yes awfully fast, after all.

"I'm sure…I'm just worried, is all." The two Assassins saw the pain in the kid's eyes, and made a move to go into the kitchen. "Wait. What will happen to me, after I'm trained?" This time, Shaw saw the arched eyebrows on both men's faces. Burroughs offered a lame answer to the question.

"We're not sure right now. You may be placed on a team, you may be forced to go it alone. It all depends on what the others do." With those words, they walked out of the room, leaving Shaw alone with his thoughts.

_I never thought I would have to call it off this soon…_He thought sadly, looking at the picture of his girlfriend. Although it wasn't his first relationship, it was the first where it felt like everything clicked, that Emily understood him and he understood Emily on a deep, emotional level. The two were approaching their sixth month anniversary, and both had vowed to keep the relationship alive when school ended in two months. _What do I say to her? Do I lie, or take her into confidence? Can I trust her?_ His last question brought home the reality of the situation. If he couldn't even trust his girlfriend, like he had in the past, how could Shaw trust those he was going to work with? Who could he trust, anymore? A small tear slid down his face, as he finally faced the prospect of leaving behind everything that he knew. Now he knew how soldiers leaving for their first deployment felt. Sighing deeply, he turned away from the picture. He had made his decision; he would have to live with it now.

The sound of the front door opening roused the two Assassins into alertness. To be more accurate, they were focused on the entrances to the kitchen. Although they didn't move, both flicked their wrists, and the hidden blades they wore extended out of their bracers, hidden from view underneath the table. The sound of boots striking a hardwood floor echoed through the house, as Franklin Shaw entered the kitchen and saw the two men sitting at his table.

It took a lot to shock Mr. Shaw, who had been a Marine infantryman for fifteen years and four tours overseas, one of them in Korea watching over the DMZ. His instincts, apparently, were still sharp. His hand automatically moved to his holstered pistol, but he made no move to draw it.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The voice was soft, almost light, coming from such a big man. Yet the Assassins could hear the razor-sharp steel hidden within it, and the look in Franklin's eyes telegraphed his intent clearly: _If you hurt anyone in my family, I will kill you without mercy._

"Pilum? Is that you?" Guttierez spoke quietly, almost reverently. Mr. Shaw's eyes fixed firmly upon the elder of the two men.

"…Gladius? My God, it is you!" As Franklin's boots pounded across the kitchen's floor, the hidden blades retracted with barely a sound; apparently, he was not hostile.

"Yes, it is. It's been a long time since Paris, eh, Frank?" The two men embraced, and Burroughs was left looking at the two of them, not understanding what was going on.

"Mr. Shaw and I here served as part of the Marine Protective Force for the Paris embassy, his sunset assignment. He was the overall leader, while I was one of his team sergeants. Needless to say, we bailed each other out of trouble with our friends the Royal Marines." Franklin laughed, and shook his head.

"As I recall, Christian, I had to bail you _and your guys_ out of trouble the entire time I was there. I did nothing to disgrace the Corps in any way, shape, or form. Excepts, perhaps, that one time at Les Invalides…" The big police officer assumed a mock-thoughtful expression, and that broke the tension. The three men sat down, just as Mrs. Shaw entered the room.

"Ah, good. I was just about to send Franklin here to look for you, Mrs. Shaw. I'm afraid, my friend, that I'm not here on a purely social call." Guttierez waited for the husband and wife to exchange looks, and continued when he had their undivided attention.

"It concerns your son, Michael. Now, I know that you want him to succeed and go on to college, maybe even enter the military, if he's taking after you, Franklin. But, he has the potential to do very well in the organization I am a part of now. I guess you could say that it is military in nature, but with a more…international agenda. It isn't anything that you would object to, Franklin; we still fight for the same ideals as we did in the Corps. Your son has already exhibited the talents that we look for in recruits, and he has the intelligence to back it up, too—true, he doesn't have a through-the-roof GPA, but a 3.7 is respectable for anyone."

Guttierez paused, looking to see if his friend followed what he was saying. The elder Shaw stayed mute, looking at his friend very closely indeed. His eyes had become narrow prisms, their dark green glittering with wariness and a small amount of anger.

"What we're asking, I suppose, is our permission to take him in and train him. Before you ask, he's already agreed. We just felt that we should inform you." Guttierez looked at them, and continued after a slight pause. "He'll be working on the side of freedom and liberty. He will have the support of the most talented and experienced people in the world. But, he will never again be able to contact you; if he meets you, it will be by accident, under an assumed name, and in a place very far from home. Do you understand me, Franklin?" His old friend startled. During his time in the Corps, Guttierez had only used Shaw's given name when the situation was especially dire. The only time he had used it was when his fireteam in Iran had been pinned down by a mixed force of insurgents and Revolutionary Guards—outnumbering the team by about a hundred to one.

"Christian…this is my son we're talking about here. I know he's going into the military; he's been accepted to Annapolis and has gained an NROTC scholarship for his other schools. But…he can't leave, not yet. I still have to teach him, and he still has to discover who he is. You don't make warriors overnight, you know that." In the silence that passed in the wake of his remark, Burroughs spoke quietly for the first time.

"Not anymore, they don't. I'm a psychologist, among other things, Mr. Shaw, and your son has the warrior's state of mind and being evident in him. It shows from the way he speaks, moves, how he tunes out unnecessary stimuli and focuses on the most dangerous threat. He's already a warrior. He simply needs the training, and he can only get that training with us. No disrespect, sir, but the military would waste his talent. We can give him an opportunity to make a direct impact through his missions." Sighing deeply, he continued.

"Mr. Shaw, your son has already accepted our offer. We're giving him a few days to put his affairs in order, and we'll speak to the school. He has enough credits to graduate, thanks to the summer courses he took online. Although he's been accepted at the Naval Academy and other places, we can give him an education that is just as effective, if not more so."

For a long time, neither Shaw said anything. Amelia looked ready to cry, but she seemed to be holding up well. Franklin's face was expressionless, not revealing whatever thoughts were behind his visage. It seemed that both were warring between their love for their son and their sense of what the offer represented. Neither had seen Guttierez in years; they had kept in contact with him only sporadically. It looked like that he was still involved with the Corps, but in a very 'black' way. Still, the Shaws were unconvinced either way.

The sound of another pair of boots, this time coming down the stairs, broke all four from their thoughts. A stone-faced Michael walked into the room, and Franklin finally saw the man his son had become. He still looked like the gangly teenager he had known and loved, but there was something new about him. For several seconds, Michael didn't say anything. When he spoke, his voice was soft, yet had the hard bite of authority that Franklin instantly recognized.

"I know you two were brought in at the last minute on all this, but my decision stands. I will accept the offer of this organization on behalf of these two men. I'm afraid that my decision is final." He came to attention, back straight, head high, thumbs along the seams of his jeans. For a sheer instant, both Guttierez and Shaw saw not a teenage runner in front of them, but a Marine officer, instead—one who was willing to take responsibility for his own actions, and take the punches in case anything went wrong. It was a breed of officer that they had encountered only a few times. They were either dead in nameless places around the globe or the generals of the Marine Corps.

Standing slowly and stiffly, Franklin Shaw walked over to his son, staring him directly in the eye, dead level with him. The two looked back at each other, the young, inexperienced man and the old, wise professional. Without a word, Shaw embraced his son, and he began crying silently. He knew that the call, when it came, was irresistible. It was what had made him enter the Marines, and later become a SWAT officer. He knew it was what had made Michael apply to the Naval Academy, and assume the leadership roles in Scouts. His only regret was that Michael didn't have to grow up so quickly, even though it was apparent that he had.

"He'll be staying with you for the next day or two, until we come back to pick him up. We still have several families to visit, for the same reasons that we explained to you. Good-bye, Mr. Shaw, Mrs. Shaw. Remember, we were never here." With those words, Guttierez stood, and Burroughs followed him out the door. Inside, the family slowly returned to their normal routine, but with an undertone of almost tangible sadness.


	4. The Long Goodbye

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, especially from nichenoche—She kicked me in the ass to get this one going. Mature material in this one (Two teenagers + empty house = …) so you've been forewarned. Reviews are always welcome!**

**Assassin's Creed series is property of Ubisoft Montreal; Michael Shaw, Emily Willows, and others not in the series are mine.**

Chapter Four: The Long Goodbye

Instead of the blare that it usually emitted, the alarm was only a soft beep. Nevertheless, Michael stopped it and sat on the edge of his bed. He had never gone to sleep that night, instead drifting in and out of a kind of a daze. The enormity of what he had done was sinking in, and it scared him. To lose all that he had grown up with, by his own volition…But then he remembered the Templar woman who tried to kill him, and the man who had followed his every move. Staring into the darkness of his room, Michael stood and began to outfit himself.

Olive green trousers. Dark green t-shirt. Olive green uniform blouse. Brown boots. Black beret. It was an almost exact replica of not a Marine uniform, but a Russian Naval infantryman, right down to the patches and rank insignia. Although he harbored a deep hatred for Communism, Shaw thought that the military of the Soviet Union had once been one of the most formidable fighting forces on the planet. It was his own way of nodding to history, as well as driving his father insane. It was always nice to cause a double-take at the range, especially with a rifle easily mistaken for its military counterpart. As he pulled on the uniform now, however, he felt only a great sadness overcome him. _This might be the last time I wear this,_ he thought to himself.

Walking quietly down the stairs, he did what he always did when he was the first one up—make coffee. It seemed like every Shaw drank coffee—indeed, whenever his father's brothers and sisters gathered together, there was always an argument of some sort about coffee. It was something that was as natural as the changing of the seasons for Michael, a source of happiness and humor. Watching the coffee begin to drip into the pot, he allowed his mind to wander. How would he break the news to Emily? Would he lie and say that he had to leave for Annapolis early? Maybe an offer from the Marines? But, what about finals? How would he explain those? As he mulled the questions over, he felt like the universe was crushing in on him.

"Damn it all." Michael sighed, knowing that there was no easy way to explain it. Sometimes, the only option was the truth. But, what if the truth hurt too much? Would it be worth it then? Michael wasn't sure. He did feel, however, that he owed Emily that much, or at least something that amounted to the same effect. With such a close connection, anything less felt like a betrayal of her trust to Michael. He sighed again, and stared off into the dark of the morning, waiting for the sun to rise and illuminate the landscape.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the sky changed from a black, to a purple, and then to orange and red, as the sun began to rise over the trees. Shadows were dispersed, and light filled the empty spaces. As Shaw sipped his coffee, he marveled at the sunrise. No matter what the circumstances, seeing the sun rise was always an enjoyment for him. It didn't matter if it was over the Great Lakes on a cold winter morning, or seeing it rise above the surface of a hill in Virginia. The sunrise had an ethereal, almost mystical quality to him. Shaw liked to joke that it was the pagan in him, seeing the sun god bring light back to the world, but it seemed to be at a far deeper level, almost as if a small part of him was afraid of the night, and welcomed the day like a besieged battalion greets reinforcements.

He didn't turn around when his father walked into the kitchen, who startled at seeing his son there. It wasn't often that Michael was the first one up, but it had become more of a common occurrence. Standing there, Shaw looked at his son. There seemed to be a dangerous edge about him, something that he had not previously had. It reminded the elder man of a coiled spring, waiting to be released. There was something terrible and dark about his son, standing there in front of the window. The father could tell that Michael was on edge, based upon the way he stood and the tenseness in his shoulders. Not making an attempt at stealth, Franklin walked up behind his son, looking out over the woods as well.

"How many have you killed?" He asked quietly. The question had come out of the blue, without any preamble or conversation. Michael jerked his head back, and a gleam of fear shone in his eyes. "And don't bother lying to me, son. I know better than anyone what a man looks like when he's killed someone. Plus, I know you. If you're going to lie to me, I'll know it." The older man's face was etched out of stone, staring down at Michael with no expression at all. A tense silence hung between the two; Michael grappled with the question while his father simply stood there, waiting for a response.

"Just two," Michael responded at length. "I didn't think that I would have to kill someone, not yet, at least. That changed a couple of days ago." Michael paused, unsure if he could reveal what had happened to his father. The silence stretched between the two, and Michael knew that he would have to talk to someone who knew him if he was going to cope with what he had done.

"It happened when I was running. Someone fired a rifle at me, and I charged ahead. She tried to stab me, when I got closer, but I threw her against a tree. Then…I stabbed her neck, just once. The weird thing was that I felt like I had done this before. It wasn't like I had done it in a video game; it was like I knew exactly what to do. The weirdest thing of all, though, was that… I wasn't in control. It was like someone else was in my mind, directing my body to dodge, to run, to throw, to kill. The same thing happened yesterday. This…person took over my mind when I was walking to my car, and I chased down a guy with a rifle, also taking aim at me. I… interrogated him, and then I broke his neck. Oh, God." Michael finished and hung his head in shame.

For several minutes, Michael's father didn't say anything. The father in him wanted to hug his son, tell him that it was alright, that he could tough it out. But the Marine, the police officer, told him that he needed to explain to Michael exactly what was happening to him.

"Michael, this is normal. You think I had an easy time of it when I killed someone?" That brought Michael's head snapping up. He knew that his father had served in the Marines, but didn't know that he had actually killed someone. "I don't talk about this much, simply because there aren't many people who know what it's like. My first tour overseas, in Korea, I had to kill some poor bastard who had crawled under the wire and was going to hit my post. I didn't want to kill him; the entire time I was wishing that he would turn around and go back across the wire.

"Instead, he pulled out a grenade and was going to throw it at me. I aimed my rifle, took a breath, held it, squeezed the trigger, and shot him. It woke my buddy up, who began raising all holy hell on the radio net. While he woke up the ell-tee, I was staring at the body, thinking to myself, 'You poor dumb bastard, why didn't you go home?' I was scared, and mad, and curious all at once. My platoon sergeant took me aside and told me that it wasn't murder; he was going to kill me and I had to do something. He was a soldier acting under orders, much like me. And, for me, that sealed it.

"If you're going to be running with Guttierez, you might have to accept killing as a part of your life. You need to be able to walk away from every kill, knowing that you did the right thing. Feeling that remorse is normal; if you didn't, you'd be considered a monster by a lot of people. It happens in a few people that they don't feel anything after they kill. It might not be considered normal, but it isn't unhealthy; I know a few people who were the coldest killers I ever met, but never lost sight of why they were Marines. No, the scary ones were the ones that took pleasure in the killing, and I've known a few of those, too. Not the pleasure of a job well done, but the pleasure in hurting someone, to see them die right before their very eyes. As far as I know, they were all court-martialed for conduct unbecoming—and, in one case, the murder of a POW.

"Whenever you kill, you have to justify it to yourself later on. Was the person you killed a valid target? Would you have been at a disadvantage, had you not taken action? This will work in the short-term, immediately after the kill. In the long-run, though, you will have to face the moral and ethical questions, and to make sure that the death protects you and your comrades. Always fight with honor, and make righteousness your standard."

Franklin stopped to see that his son understood what he was saying. Michael stood stock still for a second, and then began nodding slowly. In his eyes, Franklin could see the beginnings of a warrior emerging. It was an eager gleam, one that spoke of a willingness to learn, and accept what was being taught. Smiling faintly, the father left the son to contemplate and think over what he had said. The former Marine knew that, when push came to shove, that process of accepting what he had done would take the rest of his son's life. He was haunted still by the memory of that Korean soldier, who had crawled up to him that muddy night and tried to kill him at close range. He only hoped that his son would never have to face those nightmares.

* * *

The restaurant was quiet, which was just the way that Michael preferred it. Crowds always made him nervous, and today he had been more nervous than usual. Gone was the uniform, gone were the boots. Instead, he looked like any other teenager out on a date—tan slacks, a black dress shirt, and shined black shoes. He glanced at his watch. _Five of six. Is she going to torture me right up until the last minute?_ The tinkling of the door's bell roused him from his thoughts, just quickly enough to see the object of his thoughts walk into the foyer.

She was stunning, in a word. She wore a calf-length, midnight blue dress, strapless, flowing down her body as smoothly as water, with a rippling effect like smoke. Her hair was unbound, a graceful flow of auburn in contrast to the dress, with a luster like highly polished metal. Slight traces of makeup brought out the high cheekbones and thin lips, making her face appear exotic and alluring. The neckline of the dress was, if not conservative, then not liberal, either, riding the line between modest and daring, with a décolletage that brought her attention but not staring. The effect of it all nearly made Shaw's heart stop, such a sight it was. Then again, it was a sight he had never seen before.

"What, no word of greeting? Cat got your tongue, or something like that?" Emily Willows asked playfully, a mischievous smile appearing quickly. Grinning like a madman, Shaw crossed the foyer and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace, which she eagerly returned. It was only because of their position that she couldn't see the sadness in his eyes. It disappeared, though, when they pulled back from each other. Looking into her eyes, Shaw gave in to an irrepressible urge to laugh, startling his date.

"I'm sorry," he said, as his laughter subsided. "It's just that the look in your eyes was like a mixture of 'Do I look nice?' and 'Is he going to embarrass me?' Relax, Emily. Yes, you look absolutely brilliant, and no, I'm not going to embarrass you. Much, that is." Grinning devilishly, the teenager quickly stepped out of range as his girlfriend comprehended his comment, enough so that he avoided the gentle slap with a good margin of safety. It was an old routine between them, but its prankish irresponsibility never got old; if anything, it improved with practice.

"Well, now that you're here, shall we?" Michael asked, mock-gallantly, and the two were quickly guided to their table. As Emily perused the menu, Shaw took a look at his surroundings. The _Mazzini_, as the restaurant was named, had a Tuscan feel to it—stucco walls, terra-cotta roof tiles, and secluded alcoves for booths. The lighting came from carefully placed wells on the walls, giving off enough light for everything to be seen but also only just enough to ensure an interesting play between light and shadow. From what Shaw had heard, it sounded like a very good Italian place, a good idea for a team dinner. _If I can come back…_

Such thoughts, however, were quickly banished from his mind as he looked at Emily. She seemed so…delicate, almost. He knew that she could handle herself in a fight, but in the dim light, a thin silver chain gracing her neck, she appeared fragile, an illusion. He didn't know what it was, but the sight drove him mad with love. _When she gets it right, by God, she gets it right._ It wasn't the sensual that caused his eyes to rove; it was a simple appreciation of beauty. Truth be told, Emily wasn't the prettiest of girls, but she wasn't the ugliest, either. But, she was just pretty enough for Michael to notice her, just as he was just handsome enough to have Emily notice him. The simple fact that someone actually gave a damn, however, made him grateful for Emily. She had taken him in from the cold, and let him see a world that had been beyond his experience. It seemed so unfair that, just as they were in a state of unity, they had to go their separate ways.

"Hello, Michael? You there? I asked you a question." Shaw blinked, and saw his date looking pointedly at him. "You seem to be out of it. Are you okay, or should we go back to my place for dinner?" Staring blankly at her, Michael tried to comprehend her words. He saw an opening for him to explain things to her, in a more private, familiar setting.

"That might not be a bad idea, actually. Did you drive here, or were you dropped off by one of your friends? You told me that your parents wouldn't be here this weekend, so that leaves only two options." Although the idea of being with his girlfriend, alone, for an extended period of time was attractive, warnings bells were ringing in his head. Something told him that such a situation was not desirable; it would only hurt him. He shrugged the feeling off, and waited for her to respond.

"Yes, I got dropped off by Rachel; she was going downtown, and said that either you or she could give me a lift back home. So, shall we get going?" The young couple rose and, with a profuse apology and generous consolation tip to the waitress, left for Shaw's car. Unlike its owner, the car itself was plainly nondescript, a blue Honda sedan that would blend into any city. Inside, as to be expected, it was a teenager's car: Insanely loud sound system, CD rack, and various articles of clothing and books in the backseat. What was on the dash, however, was anything but normal. It was a computer much like that in any cruiser, with its own miniature keyboard and display. The kicker, though, was the radar detector that was built into it. So long as it was active, it could pinpoint the exact location of a radar gun, at the cost of revealing itself. In its 'passive' mode, though, it would pick up on only the general location, but not reveal its presence. Needless to say, it had been rather difficult with a police officer father to pull off the combination.

"Emily, I need to ask you something." When she turned to look at him, Michael continued. "Please try to stay quiet when we're driving. I need some time to think, and although I like talking with you, I can't puzzle through the problem in my head if you continue to talk. Could you do that for me?" Emily looked at him curiously, but obeyed his wishes. The drive passed in silence, both teenagers occupied with their thoughts. Unseen in the darkness, Michael's face was grim, and his eyes showed a hint of the soul-rending sadness that was coursing through him. He despised himself for what he was going to do, but it had to be done. _I really must become a shadow, a memory._

Ordinarily, two teenagers alone in a house would begin to do what naturally came to them, but Michael decided against his natural impulses. The last memory he wanted Emily to have of him wasn't some hormone-driven teenager. The image of the two of them going at it like rabbits appeared in his mind almost unbidden, and he laughed mentally as he pulled up to Emily's house. Quickly securing the car, he let Emily precede him up the steps, admiring everything about her forlornly. The way she moved, the shimmer of her dress, the shine of her hair…it would now only be a part of his past, of a life half-remembered. He had never given thought to such sacrifices, and found himself wondering if his father had to go through a similar process of regret when he joined the Corps. He had seen the tear-filled reunions of troops with their families on television, of course, but never understood the emotions that characterized such events till now, when he had to leave that which he loved dearly.

None of this, however, showed on Michael's face as he entered the house. Emily turned the lights on, and he turned his head away in sudden pain—a light right next to his eyes had turned on when he wasn't ready for it. Slowly, he opened his eyes, giving them enough time to dilate sufficiently in order to perceive his environment. An off-white foyer greeted his eyes, with its familiar photographs of Emily's family and even a few of the young couple. Further down the adjoining hallway, he could see Emily in the kitchen, moving about hastily to prepare a meal for the two of them. Shaking his head, he quickly strode down the hallway and into the kitchen, rolling up his shirtsleeves and moving towards the sink. When the water turned on, Emily whirled around, her eyes revealing her fright. When she saw that it was only Michael, however, she relaxed and waved a box of pasta at him.

"_You_ are far too quiet, I hope you know that! You nearly gave me a heart attack when you turned the faucet on." She laughed and turned back to the stove, putting in a mix of oregano, rosemary, and garlic into the sauce. Michael, for his part, merely smiled and grabbed whatever vegetables he could find from the fridge, pursuing the idea of steamed…well, whatever he had grabbed. Actually thinking, he looked down and saw a zucchini before him. Face twisting in disgust, he quickly replaced it with a head of broccoli, something that was palatable to the both of them. For the next several minutes, nothing was said between the two teenagers, operating in tandem, moving pots and cutting boards across the kitchen in order to finish prepping, putting the food on, and quickly cleaning up afterwards. It was a routine the two had practiced before, in family dinners and when Michael had hosted a pasta dinner for the track team. Each knew their place, and knew not to interfere with the duties of the other. It seemed terribly businesslike, but they both took enjoyment out of the sense of purpose the activity gave them.

"What does the summer look like for you?" Michael asked, wiping his hands with a towel, leaning against the counter, feet crossed. He felt the need to create small talk, since this was possibly the last time he would ever see Emily. He wanted to have a pleasant memory of her as his last, if it came to that.

"Well, it looks like I have a shot of interning down at State this summer, out of Georgetown. I'm not sure what they'll ultimately give me, but I put down the Middle East as my first choice. Then, of course, there's the entire issue of housing down there, whether I get an apartment or not…" Emily's enthusiasm for the subject quickly bubbled to the surface, and she began a running monologue that wavered between her possible internship and her preparations for college at Georgetown, her first choice. Michael had been floored when he learned that she had been accepted at Georgetown; he didn't know much about the school, but supposedly it was about as selective as Annapolis or West Point. As her voice rose and fell, Michael slowly lost focus on what she was saying and instead listened to the rhythm and sound of her voice. He didn't have the first clue about vocal classifications for music, but he felt that not even the best singer at the top of her form could equal his love talking. It was so…smooth, flowing, like a river lapping over and around the rocks that formed its bed. For a moment, he let the voice soothe both his mind and his fraying nerves.

All of this didn't mean that his eyes, however, were glazed over. On the contrary, they were still bright and alert, tuned into his environment. When Emily suddenly turned, the spell was broken and Michael tensed up, certain that she had seen something. He prepared to tackle her and get her out of the possible lines of fire when she spoke.

"Oh, it's done! Michael, be a dear, could you get me some water? Don't worry, I'll get everything set here." Scolding himself for his overactive imagination, he did as he was told. Walking quietly into the dining room, he looked at the candles and debated, ultimately deciding against it. Although it would have been nice, the candle-lit dinner was simply too much of a cliché to be effective. Walking back and forth to the kitchen, he set the table for two, keeping it simple, just as she liked. A home-cooked meal and simple relaxation was oftentimes better than dinner at a restaurant and taking in a show, despite the attractiveness of the latter.

In short order, the two were seated, and in almost as short order, the meal was…for lack of a better term, devoured. True to the spirit of teenagers, both Emily and Michael displayed an astonishing ability to make food disappear, to the bemused shock of their parents. Contrasting to the quickness of the meal, the two took their time cleaning up the remains. It was almost as if both were reluctant to leave the other, perhaps believing that the moment would end, disrupted like being shaken out of a particularly good dream. Michael was the first to move away, gathering the dishes and moving into the kitchen. Checking the dishwasher, he noticed that it was full of clean dishes, and would take perhaps too much time to unload and reload. Shaking his head in amused annoyance, he turned the water on over the sink, and set the dishes to the side. If the old methods were to be called for, then the old methods would suffice. After all, it was only a few dishes.

To his way of thinking, the situation was clear—he could either clean the dishes quickly, and spend more time with Emily, or clean them slowly and spend less time with Emily. True to form, he set to work with a will, his world ruled by a simple set of instructions. _Grab. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse again. Place to dry. Repeat._ He became so lost in it that he didn't notice Emily sneaking up behind him; if he had, he would have noticed a devilish look on her face. Without warning, a pair of hands wrapped around his waist, hugging him. From there, it was all instinct. Michael's back arched, his hands flew behind him to grab the offender, and he turned around, moving into a crouch. All of this resulted in Michael coming face to face with—

"Emily. Could. You. Not. Do. That!" He gritted through his teeth, as his girlfriend began to laugh, and considering his situation, it would have been hard for an observer not to laugh either. He was at eye level with Emily's bosom, which was…distracting, to put it politely. _Two can play at that game, my dear!_

Sliding his hands around her waist, he locked them and lifted her up to his level. As soon as it was feasible, he bent his head to the side and kissed her. Emily stiffened in surprise, but almost instantly returned the kiss with a passion that Michael hadn't felt before. She closed her eyes, and, for a second, Michael was tempted to as well, to simply lose himself in the moment. But, he kept his eyes open. It was a quirk of his, one that he didn't understand, but went ahead with it anyway.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only a few seconds, the two broke off, looking at each other. Without saying anything, Michael carried her from the kitchen into the living room, thinking that it would be the most prudent thing for him to do. She stopped him, however, with a shake of her head. Curious, he cocked his, wondering what was going on. Silently, Emily motioned up the stairs, and his heart started beating faster. _Does she really mean…Uh oh. Dangerous ground, Michael. Minefield, even._ Her eyes, however, told him that she had complete and absolute trust in him. Carefully, he walked up the stairs, fearing that he would drop her and hurt her. Thankfully, the two made it up the stairs without any mishaps, and Michael paused, unsure where to turn. He had never been in her room before, much less upstairs. Although he dearly would have liked to have pursued that avenue before, he valued the peace that he had established with her parents more.

Seeing his hesitation, Emily giggled, a sweet, almost maternal sound. She pointed to the right, and Michael's eyes adjusted to the dark, seeing her bedroom. Rethinking the situation, he gently set her down on her feet and motioned for her to lead the way. Smiling coyly, she took his hand and led him into the room. Michael felt his mouth go dry and his hands become jittery as he walked the last few feet. He had been in a girl's bedroom before, of course, but never under circumstances like this. Slowly, Emily guided him to the bed, and sat down on the edge of it, kicking off her shoes. Still moving in silence, Michael moved to do the same, but by now his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't get a grip on the laces. He stopped for a few seconds, closed his eyes, and took a few breaths. He felt his heart rate go down a bit, and tried to untie his shoes again. This time, he succeeded, and his shoes joined Emily's on the floor.

Turning to Emily, he simply looked at her for a few seconds. The only sound that could be heard was their breathing, and that was barely audible. Cautiously, as if he was petting a frightened puppy, Michael began to stroke Emily's hair. His own hair was a high-and-tight buzzcut, and felt bristly every time he tried to get at an itch. Her hair, however, was different. It was silky smooth, not unlike a pelt, and was just as soft, too. His fingers wove in between the strands of her hair, simply reveling in the sensation of her hair against his skin. Emily scooted closer to him, so that their legs were touching. Reaching her hand up, she stroked the outlines of Michael's face, feeling his jaw line and the obvious tension in his neck. Gently, she ran her hand up and over his ear, tracing the outline of his hair. It was a pleasant contrast between smooth skin and bristly hair, culminating in the squared away cut at his neck. Her other hand reach out and grabbed Michael's, gripping it tightly. Michael returned the pressure, as if to assure her that he was still there.

He eased his hand down to her waist, making sure that he didn't startle her. Slowly, he leaned back onto the bed, and Emily followed willingly. For a few moments, the couple simply lay there, both looking the other in the eye, stroking each other's hair, Michael's hand around her waist. Contrary to the popular perception of teenagers, they weren't tearing each others' clothes off. Instead, they were content to simply lie next to each other, drawing warmth from their bodies. However, teenagers are wont to be teenagers, and in the presence of hormones and adolescent love…

Emily rolled over on top of Michael, much to his surprise. He opened his mouth to ask why, but she preempted him by kissing him. The strict, moral part of his mind was surprised by her actions, and demanded a halt to what was happening. The part that made him run, made him read every book he could, the part that had made him love Emily, however, addressed the objecting part of his mind simply and bluntly: _Screw you_. His complete and undivided attention was focused solely on Emily. Returning her kiss, he wrapped his arms around her thin waist, hugging her tightly. She broke off the kiss and uttered a soft groan. His arms immediately went lax, thinking that he had gone too far. Emily gave him a small smile, and reached behind her, grabbing his arms and implying that he should hold her. Michael gave a lopsided grin in reply, and tightened his hold on his girlfriend. She lay her head down on his shoulder, and he was happy to run one hand up her back, feeling her shiver not unlike a cat as he did so.

"I love you so much, Michael. It almost hurts me when you're not around. You just make me feel so…safe, protected, I guess. I like that." Emily spoke in a whisper, perhaps afraid that if they spoke too loudly, someone would hear them, run upstairs, and promptly begin lecturing the two about "proper behavior" and "teenage sexuality". In the semi-darkness, Michael stopped moving his hand and smiled, remembering the past declarations of love that he had exchanged with her.

"I know, Emily. I know." Like Emily, he spoke in a whisper, fearing that the moment would shatter if he spoke louder. For several seconds, silence hung between the two lovers. Still in a whisper, Michael continued. "You've shown me what it's like to love, Emily. To feel, to listen to the silent rhythms, to watch the flow of emotions. You brought me in from the cold, offering warmth and friendship. Only a few years ago, I would have rejected that, perhaps out of fear. But now…Now, I can't imagine life without that." He kissed her softly on her cheek, and felt color come to her cheeks, blushing warmly. _Embarrassment over what I said? Or embarrassment over the pride she feels?_ He didn't know, and it didn't matter.

He kept running his hand up and down her back, tracing the outlines of her spine with each stroke. He wanted to go further, but he wasn't sure if he could. The anxiety began to return, and his heart began beating faster, his hand started to jitter. He didn't know which one tipped her off—she was lying on his chest, almost right over his heart, and she could feel his hand on her back. In either case, Emily scooted back, so that her head was on his chest, and looked at him. With one hand, she began to stroke the side of his head, tracing the area around his ear. She took her other hand and gripped his, tightening it almost to the point of pain. "It's okay, Michael, it's okay." She whispered it calmly, as if talking to a frightened person. Michael squeezed the hand back, and gripped Emily tighter. As he lay there with Emily, simply focusing on what was, he felt himself calming down. The hand stopped its twitches, and soon resumed its gentle stroke.

Emily stirred, and Michael froze. He strained to hear the sounds of the house. At first, he thought that her parents had suddenly arrived home, and that nearly caused his pulse to leap up again. But, no sound could be heard. He refocused on Emily, and saw her leaning up. Curious, he tilted his head to the side, as if to ask, _Now what are you doing?_ Squinting his eyes in order to see a bit more clearly, they suddenly went as wide as dinner plates as he comprehended what was going on before him. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit! Minefield!_

Emily had unzipped the back of her dress, and was starting to slide it down her body. Almost instantly, Michael's hands shot out and grabbed hers. He felt bad that he had done that so suddenly, and he could see from her wince that it hurt her. However, he needed to make sure.

"Emily…Are you sure about this? Do you trust me that much?" His green eyes stared into her blue, unflinching at the implications of his question. Staring back at him, Emily didn't smile like she usually would.

"Michael…If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" For a tense period of silence, the two looked into each other's eyes: One pair hard and suspicious, the other soft and trusting. Slowly, Michael withdrew his hands, and Emily's face brightened up, a smile spreading across her features. She slid the dress down to her waist, and Michael studiously kept his eyes on her face. True, she was attractive, and she was covered by her bra, but he wasn't a priapic, and felt that such a response would kill the mood. Emily saw the enforced eye contact, and she laughed quietly.

"It's okay, Michael. I am a woman, after all." Instead of lying back down, she moved off of Michael and motioned at his shirt. For a few seconds, his mind went blank, and then he began hurrying to get his shirt off. Inwardly, he began fuming at himself for how slow he was. _You idiot! You should've realized that this was her intention the second she went for the zipper! God, how much of a moron can you be?_ It took some fumbling with the buttons, but he managed to get the shirt off, and then he remembered—he was wearing a white undress shirt beneath it. Emily noticed too, and simply smiled at him. Reaching over, she tugged the shirt up and over his head, and promptly took a look at his torso. To her dismay, Michael had absolutely no abs to speak of—she couldn't see any of the stereotypical features that came from exercise. Sighing, she laid a hand on his stomach, expecting to feel soft flesh. Instead, she felt solid, taut muscle underneath her fingers. Michael noticed her surprise, and grinned at her.

"Emily, appearance is overrated, at least in terms of muscles. You can look like the fittest guy in the world, but not be able to lift anything, and vice versa." Looking at Emily, he could see that his thoughts had followed the right path. She wasn't like the girls on the track team, but she wasn't out of shape, either. She had just the right weight for her height, and was blessed with a naturally high metabolism, or so he surmised. Of course, she had weight in all the right places, as he allowed his eyes to wander for the first time that night. Emily saw the sudden change in his eyes, smiled, and before Michael could react, was on him again. She slid her arms underneath him, and hugged her boyfriend tightly.

He wrapped his arms around her in turn, but halfheartedly. He knew that he would have to explain why he was leaving, but he was torn between preserving what he had now with Emily and telling her the truth. He knew, deep down, that he owed at least that much to her. She had gone through a lot with him over the past six months: Arguments with her family over his career choice, the stress of colleges and scholarships, and their final AP examinations for high school, and those being only the school-related issues. He knew that there had been a lot of pressure from their friends to start and maintain the relationship, but what had started out awkwardly for the both of them had grown into something truly beautiful. The stiff, military runner and the relaxed, peaceful writer had not only become friends; they had become the inseparable parts of an entity. If he couldn't tell her what was going to happen, how could he go forward with it himself?

"Emily, there's something I have to tell you." She perked her head up, and looked at Michael with curiosity. "I've received an offer from a former Marine, acting on behalf of his superiors," He began slowly, making sure that he pronounced every word clearly. "These superiors have noticed that I posses a…skill set, as they called it. They want to expand upon that skill set through…training, I guess you could call it.. You know what my goals are. This will give me a look at what it's really like, what I can expect of my men when I assume command of a unit. It might make the difference between life and death." He looked at her carefully; he saw that her eyes were bright and alert, comprehending—or at least attempting to comprehend—what he was saying. It wasn't the complete truth, not by a long shot, but the essentials were there. He averted his eyes, not wanting to see how he hurt her. "What this means is, I'll be leaving…well, tomorrow." He waited for the words, waited for the explosion, waited for the relationship to be smote off the face of the earth.

They didn't come, there was no thermonuclear event, and he wasn't reduced to a smoldering cinder on Emily's bed. Perhaps it was fitting that she absorbed the news with quiet dignity. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound that could be heard was their breathing, the only motion the rise and fall of their bodies. He was almost certain that she wasn't speaking or moving only from the shock of the news, and once she processed it, she would raise all holy hell. He risked a quick glance at her eyes, expecting the worst, knowing that any mistake on his part could end it right then and there. What he saw was something that he did not expect.

There was pain in her eyes, yes. It screamed out at Michael for him to notice it, to assuage it, to make it go away. That hurt was expected, but the sheer depth and breadth of it felt like a field-goal style kick to the groin. He hated himself for causing it, but knew that there was no easy way to break it to her. What he saw, but did not expect was…understanding? Support? Love, even? Whatever it was, it matched the pain, and maybe even overwhelmed it. His confusion was plain upon his face, as well as the regret that he was feeling.

"Wow. You really know how to shake my world up, you know that?" Emily whispered to him. Michael didn't respond; he could feel that she had more to say. "I mean, going to Annapolis and becoming a Marine, that I can understand, but this…It just seems so sudden." She sat up a bit further, crossing her arms on Michael's chest, incidentally putting more pressure on his chest than before. "I thought we could at least have the summer together, to sit on the back porch and look at the stars, to go for walks, to talk about life and anything interesting to us. I thought we could have made this summer one that we wouldn't forget." Michael felt the knife that was guilt begin to twist in his gust; he realized how completely unfair this was to Emily.

"But," she said sharply but quietly, grabbing Michael's chin and making him look her in the eye, "If there is one thing I've learned in nearly six months about you, it's that if you give your word on something, you mean it. With something like this, I know that you would have given your word. I don't like it, but…If you love someone, it means knowing that your love is a person, just like you. It means that you have to let that person pursue a life that you can only share with them. And because of that, I forgive you." She hugged him, and for Michael, that meant more than any kiss, any caress, any approval from another person could possibly have meant. He hugged her back just as tightly, as the tears, so long pent up from the past three days, finally began to flow. He was not ashamed of his tears, nor was he ashamed of crying in front of Emily. He mourned for the relationship; he mourned for his family losing a son; he mourned the all-too-sudden transition from a teenager to a man. For a long time, the two simply held each other, Michael's tears falling on Emily. Both wanted to speak, but knew that to do so would interrupt the process for the both of them. The grief, the sadness, the pain needed to be washed away, needed to pass through them and around them, leaving only the young couple and their fates when it all went downstream.

The sun had set; where there was once the red and orange sunset there was only a deep purple and black sky. The stars shone outside her window, and the moon cast its faint light into the room, playing across the two. Michael looked at her, and saw how the moonlight emphasized how pale Emily was. Her hair stood out in sharp contrast, falling across her back, and he slowly brushed it away, causing Emily to lift up her head at him. His eyes still wet with tears, he could see her only dimly until he blinked them away. He smiled sadly at her.

"Just looking at you, Emily, just you." She smiled back just as sadly, and nuzzled her neck against him, as if trying to gain warmth from him. Unbidden, the image of a puppy curling up against a bigger dog came into his mind, and he tried not to laugh, but failed. The sudden bucking of his chest, coupled with the strained laugh that he gave, caused Emily to stiffen and attempt to flatten herself against him. Taking her chin in his hand, he tilted her head up and grinned at her, with mirth and good humor apparent in it. She grinned likewise, and leaned in for a kiss. Michael obliged her quickly, and the hand on her back began to wander lower, perhaps emboldened by the kiss. As his hand passed her waist, and went farther down to her rear and hips, Emily broke off the kiss, and the hand froze. _Bang. Tilt. Game over. Reboot._ Michael thought that it was suddenly over.

"Now, just what do you think you're doing, hmm?" Emily whispered it into his ear, and he shivered. She wasn't mad at him, nor questioning. It almost seemed like she was teasing him, leading him on, for the humor in her voice undermined the attempt at seriousness. Gripping her tightly, he flipped her over so that he was on top, and he grinned like a madman, while Emily laughed at him.

"What does it look like I'm doing, love?" He asked quietly, looking her straight in the eye. As she mock-pondered the question, he leaned down and kissed her neck. The gesture, however, was interrupted by a hand on his chest. Looking down in surprise, he saw that Emily was pushing him away, but not with the violent force expected of someone who was scared or angry at him. Instead, it seemed almost like a gentle rebuke, the kind of motion that a good friend needing space would give to someone who was just a bit closer than necessary. Confused, he moved off and went to the other side of the bed, sitting up and watching her. She sat up, and he saw her hands move to her back, chest arching into the air…

"Ow." Michael muttered. The move was too sudden, too violent, for him to absorb. If he didn't know better, he could've sworn that he had strained a muscle when he turned his neck away from Emily, his face suddenly hot. As a result of his discretion, he now had an extremely painful crick in his neck, and he knew that it would hurt to move his head back to the centerline. More to the point, he still had to contend with what he thought Emily was doing. He didn't object, but he had wanted it to be more natural. Risking a look, he slowly turned his head around to look at Emily, and saw that she was still…well, if not presentable, then at least decent.

"Emily…Allow me?" In contrast to the confidence in his voice only a few seconds before, the voice was now timid, cautious, showing that he was out of his depth. Slowly, he moved closer to Emily, and just as slowly, Emily turned, presenting her back—and the clasps—to him. As he raised his hands, Michael saw that they were shaking ever so slightly—not as badly as they were before, but still noticeable. Ever so gently, he placed his hands on her back, running up along her spine. Taking the clasps in his fingers, he was momentarily stymied on how to undo them, caught up in the swirl of emotions going through his mind. Love, sadness, anger at himself, pity for Emily, a desire to do good by her, not wanting to hurt her. Fumbling for a few seconds, he undid the hooks, and cautiously took the garment off her, afraid that she would startle. Emily gave no sign of movement, but Michael felt her back tense under his touch.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, careful to not let his hands wander upwards. She gripped his hands, and leaned back onto his chest, neck arching to look at him. Carefully, Michael leaned back down onto the bed, wanting to preserve the moment for as long as he could. She rolled over so that she was looking him in the eye, and they both grinned at each other. The awkward impasse had suddenly passed, both confident that the other had trust. On an impulse, he reached forward and kissed her, hand on the back of her head. Once again, her eyes closed, while his remained open. Emily drew back, wanting to break off the kiss, but Michael instead began to sit up, creating an effect not unlike a fish on a line. She must have realized this, for she leaned out of his reach and arched an eyebrow at him. For his part, it was returned. For a second or two, the couple held the pose. Then, almost at the same time, they laughed. It was the first laugh to cross Michael's throat for the past few days, and it was a welcome change.

"Hold on, _chico_." Emily winked, and a look of confusion flashed on Michael's face. As soon as he saw her grip the dress, his mind went momentarily blank. The sight took its time going from his retina to the optic nerve, to the occipital lobe, being processed by the frontal lobe and amygdala…By the time he realized what she was doing, it was too late. The dress fell to the floor, and his brain's thought processes were short-circuited by the image in front of him. At once, two physiological reactions began. The first was the natural male reaction to such an image, and the second…

"Michael, are you…blushing? Oh, this is too good!" Emily laughed, and Michael gave her an embarrassed grin. It was just one of his quirks again. Looking down pointedly at him, she simply cocked her head, and the message was received quickly, in contrast to his slack-jawed astonishment of only a few seconds ago. Not without a bit of fumbling, the slacks joined the dress, and the two teenagers seemingly melded into one another. Unlike many of their peers, they didn't let their natural instincts take over. Instead, both recognized that this was not unlike a dance, to be cherished, something beautiful to be remembered. Instead of the frantic, lust-induced movements of sex, the slower, cautious movements of love were made by both Michael and Emily—a slow caress, a subtle tightening of the grip, a gentle nuzzling. As the two slipped underneath the blankets, they pressed against each other, knowing that it could be the last time for a long time that anything like this happened to them again.

* * *

It was still dark when Michael woke. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare at the ceiling above him. He felt at peace, like he had resolved something with him. Turning to look at Emily, he saw a slight smile on her lips, and the same appeared on his face, tinged with regret. He loved her, loved her madly, but he had given his word. He only hoped that she would have no regrets when she woke up and realized what had passed the previous night. Slowly sliding out of bed, so as not to wake her, he stretched and looked around. There, across the room, was a desk and chair. As his eyes adjusted to what little light was in the room, he saw some paper and a pen as well. Sighing, he knew what he would have to do. It was only fair.

Seating himself and putting the pen in his hand, he wondered how to start. Such good-byes had never been his forte, but it would have to work—he had no choice but to make it work. He began to write, the words coming out slowly at first, but increasing in pace and rhythm as he warmed to the topic. The pen scratched quietly against the paper, the words linking together into short sentences and long paragraphs. He spoke of the love that he felt for her, but also for the love of his country, for the principles that he was raised by. He spoke of the natural way of the world, of the strong overpowering the weak, and how it applied to nations. The trend was bucked, perhaps even broken, by the advent of the republic, he explained. It was those principles—the rule of law, of protecting the weak from the strong, the rights of man—that made him want to serve. The republic could only stand if men and women were willing to commit violence—sanctioned, structured, disciplined violence—on its behalf; to commit atrocity on behalf of such a republic undermined and ultimately destroyed trust in that republic, and perverted the very spirit of the warrior ethic. It was in this understanding of the world, this understanding of love, that was the cause of his leave. He didn't know if he would ever see Emily again; if he did, it might be under a new name, in a different city. He would know her, but she might not know him. At this point, the apologies began to flow.

He spoke of the regret that he felt, that it pained him to leave her. He spoke of all the fun times that they had shared: The winter dance that was their first date and first notification for their friends; the awkward yet hilarious Christmas that had ended with both teenagers running out of Michael's house in order to stop laughing at their parents; the joy of the first shared Valentine's Day, with everything both so right and so 'bad' about it; the joy they had given each other once colleges and acceptances were paired up; the happiness and sadness of the last high school track meet. He spoke of how he admired her, for everything that she did, even if others didn't like it. With sadness wringing in his heart, he finished with the hope that she would not feel anger or regret over what had passed between them. Tears began to stain the paper, and he knew that he would have to stop, or else he would not be able to continue on.

Setting the pen down and turning around, he saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. Already, a faint ray shone down through a window, revealing the floor, the bed, and part of Emily's still sleeping form. Quietly, he walked over to Emily, and kneeled down so that he was level with her face. She seemed so peaceful when asleep, and Michael wanted to leave her like that. However, he couldn't leave like that. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he gently pushed her, to see if it would have any effect. She turned slightly, but gave no indication of waking up. He tried again; still no response. Remembering a trick his father had used on him when school was cancelled due to snow, he leaned over her ear and whispered to her.

"Emily, wake up, or you'll be late to school." For whatever reason, that did the trick. Her eyes flew open, and she almost jumped out of bed before she realized who it was in front of her. The glare she threw at him was met with an impudent grin, and it quickly faltered. She leaned over and hugged Michael, perhaps unwilling to let him go just yet. Slowly, he extricated himself from her grasp.

"Emily…I have to leave soon. Could you please get dressed?" Unlike the previous night, he spoke in a normal voice, but the tone of sadness was still there. Nodding silently, she complied, and the two dressed in their respective clothes; Michael took the slacks and shirt from the night before, while Emily choose to simply wear house clothes. Walking out of her room, he took his time going down the stairs, remembering the few times that he had come here with a kind of bittersweet fondness. He knew that to make it as painless as possible, he should leave quickly. Walking into the foyer and pausing at the door, he turned around to see if Emily was still there. She still was, her face a mask of stone. Turning away from her, he walked out the door and went silently to his car, unlocking it as he went.

"Emily, I'm so sorry—" He was cut off as she gripped the back of his head and kissed him. It wasn't a simple good-bye kiss; it was infused with anger, and sadness, and love, and hope. She broke it off, and he looked at her in surprise. Looking at his finger, he saw that he still had his class ring on. Taking it off, he gently placed it in her palm. His eyes told the story. _For memory_, he said. Nodding slowly, Emily closed her fingers around it, and held it to her chest. Slowly backing away, Michael closed the door and started the engine. He waited for a few seconds, just enough to let the engine warm up, and then backed out of the driveway. As he turned his head back forward to see the road, he saw Emily. She was standing where he had left her, still clasping the ring to her chest, and he saw that she was crying, the tears streaming down her face, staining her cheeks. Yet, she didn't sob. Perhaps it just wasn't in her nature, but the sight nearly caused Michael to stop and rush back to her. His own eyes becoming watery, he drove off, hoping against hope that he would somehow see her again.

* * *

Guttierez and Burroughs were waiting for him when he returned home. Nodding simply to the two Assassins, Michael entered the house and paused, listening for the tell-tale sounds of his parents starting their morning routine. He heard none, and assumed that they were sleeping. Going upstairs to his room, he found the bags he had packed still sitting there, arranged in a neat row, the military-style uniform still there where he had left it. Changing quickly, he began to bring down the bags, but stopped when he felt something blocky in the duffel. Opening it, he saw that it was a small hymnal. Curious, he opened it, and a note dropped out. Picking it up, he saw what it read.

_Michael—This belonged to your grandfather, when he was in the Marines. He died before you were born, as you know, but he didn't want his grandchildren to know that he had served. He didn't want them to make him a hero; it just wasn't in his nature. But, he carried this hymnal with him throughout the Pacific, and he gave it to me when I joined up. I feel that it's only appropriate for you to have it now. Love, Dad._

Smiling, Michael replaced the small maroon book into his duffel. Shouldering his pack, he walked down the stairs, knowing that he would never see them again. Walking out the door and locking it, he turned to the two Assassins. Burroughs walked towards the black car parked in the driveway, and Guttierez motioned for him to follow. Without hesitation, Michael followed, placing his bags in the trunk and getting into the back. As the car drove away, Michael knew that his life was changing. For better or worse, something previously unknown was going to decide the course of his life, like the confluence of two streams meeting and then parting again. He only hoped that he chose the right stream.


	5. Not Your Friend, Not Your Enemy

**A/N: Sorry this took a while; life interfered. Track will be starting up soon, and that will cut down on time as well. All the same, please, REVIEW! I'm doing this for fun (and you guys) as much as to improve my writing style. Also, be advised, I will be TDY to Washington DC and MCB Quantico for the next week, so I'll be unable to respond to your reviews for the time being. **

**Also, poll on my profile about the story-Where will it go from here?**

**Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed II, Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, and Assassin's Creed: The Fall, along with all characters inherent in the series, belong to Ubisoft Montreal. All others belong to me.**

Chapter Five: Not Your Enemy, Not Your Ally

An unfamiliar drone began resonating back and forth in his head. It thrummed, reaching an apex and then falling back down, almost like a wave. It was sufficiently out of the ordinary that Michael opened his eyes and saw where he was. It was a small plane, not unlike one of the bush planes so common in the Canadian woods, with very little in the way of comfort—austere seats, a plain metal floor, and almost no color aside from a simple gray. At first, he panicked slightly, not knowing where he was. Then he remembered. He was going to a training site in the US, somewhere remote. Guttierez had simply said, "Opsec" when Michael asked why he couldn't be more specific. The word, previously only something referred to in discussions of military operations, had taken on a very real and personal meaning for Michael. If he wasn't careful, if he didn't 'watch his six', then he ran the very real risk of dying. He pushed the thought into the back of his mind, not wanting to think about it at the present time. Stretching in the seat, he saw Burroughs making his way back from the cockpit.

"We'll be there in five minutes. The pilot is going to start his descent; I suggest you strap yourself in." Burroughs spoke as loudly as he could without yelling over the sound of the engines, and pantomimed the act of buckling the harness on the seat to emphasize his message. Michael nodded, and began doing as he was told. The buckle was centered over his chest, and four buckles converged on it at angles, having the effect of creating four triangles when he clipped everything into place. He left them a little loose, thinking that Burroughs had only told him that for show. Looking out the window, he could only see timber-covered mountains. _The Rockies, perhaps? Maybe the Sierra Nevadas?_ For all Michael knew, he was still back in California, but thought not. It was too crowded, too close to everything important, for training purposes. Of course, he could've always gone to Twentynine Palms…

Without warning, the plane dove down to the ground, banking as it did so. The resultant forces hit Michael, and he lunged forward in his seat, restrained now by the actions of both gravity and the four-point harness he wore. Struggling, he managed to cinch the straps tighter, and wasn't leaning forward into space. Looking behind him, he saw both Guttierez and Burroughs giving smug grins to each other, both of them having done this before, apparently. Muttering a curse, Michael turned back to the window, in an attempt to see what was going on. Instead of going by him, the mountains seemed to envelop him, as the plane dove for the valley floor. Down and down it flew, as if intent upon crashing nose-first into the ground, but it gradually leveled out, rushing right above the treetops. Michael made a move to loosen the belts, but he saw the two older men suddenly brace themselves. Thinking better of it, Michael did as well, and not a moment too soon.

The plane dropped like a stone, and with about as much grace. One second, it was flying above the treetops; the next, it was in freefall. Hearing the engine cut off, Michael thought that something had gone wrong, that the pilot had made an error or perhaps the engine had suffered a mechanical failure. He felt the plane touch down, and was suddenly thrown forward in his seat as the plane pitched forward, going from flight to a stationary position in almost a second. It seemed like all the air in his lungs was suddenly evacuated, and he couldn't breathe for a few seconds. Guttierez soon started laughing, and Michael heard him walk up the aisle towards him.

"And that, Michael, is the experience of getting snagged by an arrestor wire. The only thing worse is getting catapulted off a deck, or so I'm told." It took Michael's brain a few seconds to understand what the older man meant, but he quickly realized the ingenuity of the plan. Instead of requiring an entire runway to slow down, arrestor wires could easily reduce the length—and thus visibility—of the tarmac. Of course, then there was the problem of getting the plane airborne again…Michael shrugged it off. He wasn't an engineer or an airman; he would leave the solution to the experts. However, that didn't prevent his curiosity.

"Mr. Guttierez, if arrestor wires halted us, then what ensures that the aircraft can take off safely? A catapult, a ramp, or just itself?" Michael's tone was curious, and a bit hesitant. He knew next to nothing as concerned aeronautical engineering, but didn't want to sound stupid. It was the old quandary for him—he had a reputation as being intelligent, and had to uphold that in every subject, regardless of whether he actually understood it or not.

"I'm not the one to ask; Collin is the one you want. He's actually a qualified pilot, believe it or not." Guttierez waved his hand to the Englishman as he unlatched the door and popped it open. Standing up carefully from his seat, Michael turned around, a questioning look on his face. Burroughs simply grinned.

"I'll wait till we're outside; a visual always helps with the explanation." Head cocked to one side, Michael walked down the steps, and quickly moved away from the plane, wanting to get clear of it as soon as possible if it needed to take off quickly. He felt foolish, however, when he saw the props begins to spin slowly into a state of rest. His attention was quickly focused on Burroughs, who pointed down the runway.

"You know that a plane requires a certain amount of runway in order to generate the necessary translational lift, right? Well, sometimes nature—or human design—doesn't cooperate with the laws of physics, so we have to work around that. You Americans use catapult technology—by the way, invented by us—on your aircraft carriers to get planes airborne. But, because we didn't need a full-size carrier, we used a ski-jump instead, and that's what we have here." As the two walked away from the plane, Michael looked to where he was pointing. Rising up and out of the ground, just as Burroughs had said, was a ski jump, or at least something a lot like it.

"Um…I know this might sound stupid, but isn't that kind of hard on the airframe? I don't think light planes are designed with that stress in mind," Michael said cautiously. "I mean, wouldn't the landing gear break after a while?" Burroughs nodded in affirmation, and looked like a tech geek about to explain the science behind his newest gadget. Before he could begin the lecture, however, Guttierez stopped him.

"I'm sure he'd like to know, but right now we need to get him inside and oriented. Time is everything, you know that." The growl that emanated from the stocky Hispanic made Michael stand up a bit straighter; in his mind, he instantly put Guttierez on his 'Don't piss off' list. _He might have elements of a NOMFWIC, but he knows what he wants._ Grabbing his bags from the small hold under the plane, he followed the two older men across the strip, and took a moment to look around at it. It was small, which explained the ski jump—there wouldn't be enough runway for the plane to lift off otherwise. At the same time, it worried him. A small runway meant a small footprint on the land, both from the ground and from the air. Considering that the pilot had made the plane drop like a stone in order to even land, it was clearly designed for security over comfort. _Security from the Templars? Would they even have the capabilities to find this?_ Regardless of the reasoning behind the strip, Michael felt that he would grow to hate it if he had to use it to go anywhere.

"Let's go, Shaw, no time for dawdling!" The harsh, parade-ground shout caused Michael to focus on the task and hand and hustled to catch up to the two older men. Guttierez clearly had an annoyed look on his face, while Burroughs assumed an expression of studied disinterest. "That's better, kid. This way," he added, approaching a small barracks-like building next to the airfield. Opening the door, he beckoned for Michael to step through. Wondering what orientation would even be possible in this setting, he hesitantly stepped forward into pitch blackness. Almost immediately, his heart began to race, and he felt his palms begin to sweat. _Okay, Guttierez, not funny anymore. Let's get a damn light on in here!_ A small click sounded, and well lights turned on along the walls. Michael noticed that they didn't light up the entire space, giving off only enough light to see by.

"We'll be going down the stairs. Shaw, give one of your gear bags to Burroughs; we don't want you tripping over your own feet and breaking your neck. Hope you like walking; we have a ways to go." Guttierez moved to the back of the small barracks, revealing a set of stairs that seemed to stretch down into the earth, lit only by small lights along the edges. Swallowing nervously, Michael gave the lighter of the two bags to the Englishman, and began to walk down the stairs, carefully placing his feet down so he wouldn't miss a step. Quickly, a routine developed in Michael's mind. _Step. Pause. Next step. Pause. _The routine helped to ease the fear he felt for the dimly-lighted space. He preferred to see where he was going, and was uncomfortable walking around in the dark, even when he was with his Scout troop. It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark, per se; he just didn't like working in it. Too many things could go wrong, he couldn't see if anyone was next to him. In daylight, he knew where everyone was, and how the work, if any, was proceeding.

Shaw lost track of the time they had spent walking down the flights of stairs, broken up every so often by landings that were several yards long, always going in a direction perpendicular to the last. It only reinforced his impression that wherever they were going, it was deep within the mountain. Recalling what he had read about the Assassin fortress at Masyaf, Shaw knew that, at least back in the Third Crusade, the Assassins had thought like any conventional military force in terms of defensive fortifications. So, perhaps the same logic applied to where he found himself now. However, it seemed kind of far-fetched that the Assassins would have something like Cheyenne Mountain—perhaps one of the best instances of an 'open secret' in the entire Cold War. Shaw thought that it would be rather far-fetched to excavate an entire mountain without anyone knowing. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Did you guys build this or something? Seems like a pretty deep redoubt." The last comment was said in a suspicious tone, as if to ask, _What are you guys so afraid of?_ Surprisingly, Guttierez responded almost immediately.

"Oh, yeah, we found this back in the fifties, and thought that it would make a good secret base. We managed to excavate it in secret, swear all the workers to silence, and have kept shooing away the hikers and nature lovers that come around here." Instead of stopping to elaborate, Guttierez simply hurried down the stairs to the final landing, turning around and waiting impatiently for Shaw and Burroughs to get down. Despite his reply, his face was a mixture of incredulity and anger.

"You'll have to excuse Guttierez; you haven't been around him long enough to recognize his brand of sarcasm—which is to say, you don't get a hint of it at all." Burroughs said mildly, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, behind Shaw. "I'm not sure how we got it; I think this used to be a bomb shelter that we revamped. At least, that's my hypothesis." Michael turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "Well, it makes sense! Back during the Cold War, people were freaking out about waking up one day and having the entire world blow up. So, they made fallout shelters. From the depth of this one, this must have been a government project of some sort, but has since been forgotten. It's built well, though, to last this long." Giving a nonchalant shrug of ignorance, Guttierez walked along the corridor, since it was apparent that there were no more stairs in this section of the structure. At the far end was a heavy steel door, not unlike those used to secure vaults or military bunkers. Next to it was a keypad, with the standard series of ten numbers. Blocking the view of the keypad, Guttierez input a sequence that Michael couldn't see. Waiting several seconds, he entered a second sequence, and the door swung open a small bit. Heaving the door aside, Guttierez motioned inside, where, once again, it was pitch black. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Michael stepped forward, mentally prepared to be thrown into the dark once again.

As he crossed the threshold, a light overhead switched on, shining light directly down on him. In quick succession, other lights began to switch on, and Michael heaved a mental sigh of relief. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he saw that he was in a kind of common room, but more reminiscent of a Marine barracks' ready room more than anything else. Solid wooden tables, folding metal chairs, and a small lounge-like area, with books and a small, low table centered on several chairs. Walking forward, he noticed that there was a corridor, with numbered doors on either side. Every four doors on the left, there was a red line, but on the right hand side, the rooms were more spaced out, implying some kind of hierarchy.

"Welcome to your new home, Shaw. Seems like we're the first ones here. Take the fifth door, left hand side. That's your room, for now. Get yourself situated, and then meet us out here. With any luck, the rest should be arriving soon." Burroughs spoke quietly, motioning to the indicated room with his hand, and walked back down to what Michael already thought of as the ready room. Looking at the door, with its stark white '5' on a gray field, he took a calming breath. Whatever was going to happen, whatever had been an abstraction in his mind, was quickly becoming a reality. Opening the door, he stepped into the room and saw where he would be living.

With one look, it earned his approval. It had that same slate-gray color that the walls of the corridor had, but had blue floor lights running along the bottom, giving off a kind of dawn-dusk kind of light, lessening the starkness and creating an interesting blend of shadow and light. The bed was simple, a regular mattress with what appeared to be wool sheets. Setting his bags down and walking over, he lifted the mattress, out of curiosity. Solid wood stared back at him. Nodding to himself, he noticed a small nightstand with a lamp for added illumination, and a tall locker next to it. As his eyes continued to rove, he saw what appeared to be a closet, with a desk and lamp next to it. All in all, it wasn't unlike the rooms he had seen at Annapolis or Norwich in setup, but much bigger than what was allotted to a student there. _Well, first things first._ Placing his bags on the bed, he unzipped them and began sorting out his belongings. He placed the small hymnal on the nightstand, knowing that it would probably be his prime reading material. As he dug through the clothing, his hands touched something hard and curved. A short, triumphant grin lit his face as he pulled out a pair of boots. Soon, he had everything he needed to appear less like a civilian, and more like a recruit. Changing quickly, he secured the rest of his gear by the closet, thinking that he would have enough time later on to sort out the rest.

Walking out and shutting the door, Michael turned around and began to walk back to the ready room—and hit someone almost as soon as he began. Technically speaking, what resulted as an elastic collision—Michael took a few steps back in reaction, and the person he hit went backwards as well. For all intents and purposes, though, it was an example of an inelastic collision—Michael stayed upright, while the other went straight down to the floor. Immediately, Michael's collar began to heat up from embarrassment and anger. _You idiot! You just HAD to deck the first person you see!_

"I'm so sorry! Here, let me help you up." Michael extended his hand, waiting for a reaction from the person below him. To his considerable surprise, a slim, delicate-looking hand took his, and he pulled back, pulling the person to their feet. Stepping back a bit, so as to preserve the space between them, he got his first look at the unfortunate person in question.

Staring back up at him was a thin female face. She had soft brown eyes, a small nose, and lips that, although thin, were quite attractive. Expanding his visual search, he saw that she had blond hair, and was quite thin. There was an aura about her, however, that reminded him of a tightly wound spring, and he guessed that she was stronger than she looked. He bowed his head in apology to her, but kept eye contact, watching carefully for her reaction.

"I didn't know that you were right there. Are you hurt?" He asked softly, his instincts and upbringing taking over. Quickly and unobtrusively, his eyes flitted over her, looking the girl up and down. She was thin, in a way that would be considered attractive, he supposed, but wasn't quite his type. She seemed to bristle at his examination, and he cut it off. For whatever reason, she apparently didn't like being seen as just an ornament. He figured that it would be best to be polite.

"No, I am not, but thank you for asking." The voice surprised him. It definitely had an accent, Eastern European of some description. Acting quickly, she picked up the two bags that she had been carrying, and Michael quickly got out of her way. He felt that it nothing good would come from offering to help her. As she walked away, he could've sworn that there was a slight blush on her cheeks and neck, but it was probably just his imagination. Still shaking his head over his _faux pas_, he walked the rest of the way to the ready room.

"Ah, Shaw, you're back. Very well, have a seat, now." Burroughs motioned to the table, and he took it gratefully. After walking down the stairs, his legs were hurting, and a brief respite would do him well. As he sat down, Shaw heard more footsteps echo down the hall. Turning his head, he saw a group of four come walking down the hall from the stairs. _Sheesh, for a 'secret base', this is really getting active in a hurry._ Saying nothing, Michael simply leaned back in his chair, keeping an eye on the newcomers. Two appeared to be around his age, with markedly different features. One of them had the wide, powerful body of a football player, while the other one had a regular build. The footballer had black hair and blue eyes, while the smaller one had brown hair and blue-green eyes. The other two seemed to be somewhere between Burroughs and Guttierez, age-wise, but they carried themselves with the grace and poise of combat veterans.

"Jean-Paul, it's good to see you again. I trust everything went well for you?" Guttierez asked the man with gray hair, who nodded in the affirmative. He quietly motioned for the two younger men to go over to Burroughs, who was tapping away at a computer. He drew Guttierez aside, and whispered to him. Michael couldn't make out what was said, but his recruiter's face lit up after a few sentences, and a small smile played over his lips. It became a feral grin a few seconds later, and it gave Michael the chills. His attention quickly shifted back to the newcomers, and he saw them disappear down the hall towards the bunk rooms. Looking closely, he saw the girl he had run over emerge from the room next to his, and seemed to direct the other two to the rooms labeled '7' and '8'. Furrowing his brow in thought, Michael attempted to pursue what it could mean, but a shadow fell across his field of vision. Roused from his thoughts, he looked up to see Burroughs standing over him.

"Come on, Michael, look alive, lad! The first few are here, and we need to get you oriented. Other side of the table, if you please." He added brusquely, pointing at the chair opposite the younger man very obviously. Getting the message, Michael shot up out of the chair and quickly scampered over to the other side, but saw the girl from earlier approach the table. Slowing down, he rounded the far side of the table with a more controlled pace, and he felt his collar begin to heat up once more. _What is it with this girl? Why do I always feel awkward around her?_ Michael wondered. It wasn't like what he had with Emily; he didn't know how to act around this female, and it irritated the hell out of him. He decided to simply treat her as another recruit, instead of factoring her gender into the equation. Nodding shortly to her, he took the indicated seat, sitting straight up and waiting for Guttierez or Burroughs to speak.

"I am sorry, but I do not know your name." The soft voice sounded close behind him, and the young American stiffened in surprise. Turning his head around, he saw the unfortunate girl standing behind him, clearly uncomfortable with him. Giving a mental sigh, he stood up and turned around, stepping away from the table.

"My name is Michael Shaw. And yours?" He asked, his eyes clearly communicating a _quid pro quo_ situation to the girl.

"My name is Lara, Lara Kuretznovna. It is a pleasure to meet you." The name solidified and defined the accent that was in her voice. _Russian! Man, I should've known that!_ Carefully, he held out his hand in greeting, and was surprised when she accepted it in a firm grip. Keeping his own hand loose around hers, he let her attempt to crack his knuckles while they looked each other in the eye. Staring into her brown eyes, he looked and analyzed what he saw. There was a softness about them, but it wasn't the softness of naïveté. It seemed to be a softness of heart, one that assumed the best about friends and loved ones. And yet, there also seemed to be steeliness in them, one that spoke of loss and hardship. Michael quickly determined that, for now, the examination would have to do.

"Please, Lara, take a seat." He said, motioning to a chair on his side of the table. Much to his surprise, she immediately moved to his chair, and took it before he could react. Arching an eyebrow in surprise, he was about to ask why Lara had taken his seat when the two new arrivals approached him. Apparently, they thought he was the one in charge, since the older Assassins were all preoccupied.

"What're we supposed to do, just sit here until they tell us what to do or something?" The taller of the two was clearly agitated, and appealed almost immediately to Michael. _A man of action, something rare these days. _What was interesting was that, like Burroughs, he had a British accent, but it was very different from the elder's; it was rougher, but at the same time lighter in its emphasis. Michael gave a noncommittal shrug and gestured to the chairs, making it clear which one was his, to eliminate any confusion. Nodding in comprehension, the two took their seats, with the shorter sitting on Lara's right and the taller on Michael's left. As before, Michael was the first to introduce himself.

"I'm Michael Shaw. And you are?" Before Michael could do so, the Englishman put forth his own massive hand. Not without some trepidation, Michael extended his hand, and was grateful to see that the other was someone who knew the full measure of their strength, and carefully put pressure on his hand—enough for a firm grip, but not nearly enough to be called painful.

"The name's Brown, Richard Brown. Nice to meet you, mate." A grin broke across Richard's face, and Michael returned it, feeling that he would get along well with the Englishman. Turning to his companion, Michael extended his hand behind Lara's seat, and the shorter one returned it. "Georges Languedoc, _monsieur._" The shorter one had a more pronounced accent than the Englishman, and seemed far more anxious than the other three. Michael shook his head in response to Georges' introduction.

"I'm just about the same age as you, Georges. Don't call me 'mister'; it makes me feel old." The Frenchman gave a small grin, and returned to his seat, and just in time. Guttierez and the silver-haired gentleman had stepped away from their private conversation and were looking at the four teenagers with…expectation, perhaps even eagerness. Looking behind him, Michael saw Burroughs and the second man bringing in several computers each, and wondered what was going on. It seemed like an awful lot of technology for a small group, but it didn't look like his place was to put forward questions, just to accept orders.

"All right, gentlemen—and lady," Guttierez spoke, "It's about time that we told you why you're here. As you know, you've all been experiencing moments when it's like someone else is in control of your body, or you've had memories that aren't yours, or been able to do things you've never learned how to. There is a reason for this. It's called the Bleeding Effect, and it's something we've known about for some time now. In your particular cases, it is because you are all related to a certain kind of ancestor, one that not many can claim descent from. You are all descendents of Assassins, men and women who acted behind the scenes to keep power in the hands of the many, not few. As a consequence of your descent, you have an ability to tap into the genetic memories contained within your blood, but it is something uncontrollable, brought about by experiments with this machine." Guttierez waved an arm to an object behind the four, and everyone turned to face it.

It looked a bit like a reclining chair of sorts, not unlike those seen in college dorm rooms for computer games. It had some sort of panel on the right armrest, almost like a medical panel from a science-fiction movie. It appeared like the entire apparatus was hooked up to a series of computers, if the setup that Burroughs had created was any indication. _Maybe they don't have one computer powerful enough, so they add up computer power?_ Michael thought, tilting his head in curiosity. As he and the three other teenagers stared at it, Guttierez walked into their field of view and began speaking again.

"This is the Animus, or, as the tech who built it calls it, the Animus two point oh. This will allow you to tap into the genetic memory of your ancestors in a more coherent, organized fashion. You will see what they saw, hear what they heard, speak what they spoke, and do what they did. Knowing what we do about the Animus and Bleeding Effect, we're going to be using this as a kind of personal training mechanism. As you spend more time in the Animus, you should be able to know, or at least attempt, what your ancestor was able to do." Guttierez placed a hand on the chair, and looked at it with a kind of sad yearning. He looked back up at the recruits. "As I said to Shaw, the Assassin Brotherhood is under attack. You all have talents and skills that the Brotherhood needs. If we had the time, we would train you personally, but as it is, most of your training will come about through osmosis in the Animus. We'll be starting tomorrow, and make no mistake—we are currently running on a time-critical schedule. If we have to, we'll get another Animus in here to speed the process up. Any questions? No? Good. I'll leave you to each other." The short, staccato bark of a drill instructor lashed out at the recruits, and abruptly ceased with his last statement. Without so much as a dismissal, Guttierez and the three Assassins left the ready room, leaving the four teenagers alone with each other.

For a few seconds, no one spoke. They were still attempting to comprehend the nature of the Animus, and the meaning of what Guttierez had said to them. The first one to speak, surprisingly, was Lara.

"Well, that was a full explanation." She said quietly. Standing up, she walked over to the Animus, looking at it while the other three remained seated, but attentive. "Assassins, they say. I wonder if we will have to kill." She said, the thought sounding more like a statement.

"We might have to do just that." Michael spoke quietly, lifting up his eyes from the ground to look at the other three. "You heard the man; the Assassins are under attack. I don't think it's in the business sense, but the actual physical sense. Plus, think about the name." He let that hang in the air for a few seconds before continuing. "I think we'll find that our ancestors all killed someone in cold blood, at some point." He fell into a silence once again, saying all that he thought he had to. Lara glared at him for a few seconds, but then resumed her examination of the Animus. _Now, why did she do that? Did I come across as condescending?_ Michael once again fell into his internal monologue as the others soon began speaking amongst themselves. He wasn't quite comfortable speaking to them just yet, aside from the initial pleasantries. He felt that he would be working with them, however, and that it was imperative for him to get over this discomfort. For the time being, however, he was content to simply stay back and observe his newfound companions. Richard, he noted, seemed to be the most inquisitive of the group, asking questions about the home countries of the other recruits. Lara was definitely stand-offish, indicating that it wasn't just Michael that had set her off. Georges, caught between the two, attempted to play the role of peacemaker, one that failed not through his lack of trying, but from simple exhaustion. It seemed that everyone had spent the last several hours traveling. With that thought in mind, Michael noticed that it wasn't yet three o'clock in the afternoon. _Have we really been sitting here that long?_ Michael looked around, and saw the bookcase in the small lounge. Curious, he stood up carefully and made his way over to it, trying to keep his absence unnoticed, for the time being.

Crouching down next to the bookcase, he perused the titles, wondering if he would have to read any as a part of his training. The titles and names that he saw elicited reactions of either surprise or confirmation. _The Prince_, by Niccolo Machiavelli, was one that he had expected, as well as _On War_, by von Clausewitz. However, some of them were ones that he had never heard of. _The Book of Five Rings_, by Musashi, and the _Orestiad_ were ones that were new to him. He wondered, idly, if they told the stories of assassins, or were more along the lines of teaching the recruits necessary skills. As he looked over the shelves, more titles and topics leaped out at him. Counter-insurgency…politics…psychology…even economics was mentioned. _What is the objective—to make us Assassins, or Renaissance men?_ It was a puzzle that he would have to solve at a later date; for the time being, his head was still spinning in an attempt to understand the mountain of information Guttierez had thrown at him.

"How did they find you, Shaw? You're different from the rest of us." The question caused Michael to refocus on the group. Richard was looking at him, a curious expression on his face. Lara had a look of indifference on her face, but her eyes seemed to be interested in his response. Georges looked like he was going to have a stroke, the first real sign of anger that Shaw had seen out of him. Standing up, Michael placed his hands behind his back, looking at Richard with a quizzical expression on his face.

"What do you mean by 'different'?" He didn't put any specific intonation in his question, not wanting to come across as annoyed or suspicious. Instead, his voice sounded bored.

"Well, you seem to know a lot more than the three of us, and you seem to be 'in' with those guys. What's the deal?" Michael noted that a hint of anger was now in Richard's voice. He didn't know what his problem was, but Michael had always dealt with such problems one way: head on.

"They found me the same way they found all of you—you did something that was abnormal for the average person, yet completely normal for an Assassin. Need I say anything else?" His voice was suddenly icy, perhaps even deadly. His eyes took on a cold, emerald-like gaze that disapproved of any questions. They seemed to say, _I'm not your enemy, but if you continue, then I'm not your friend, either._ The temperature of the room seemed to drop by several degrees, and the battle lines seemed to have been drawn. Unconsciously, the two tensed and fell into stances that, while looking normal, could easily become fighting ones. The American and the Englishman stared at each other, waiting for one to back down first. It might have been stupid, it might have been barbaric, it might have been archaic, but it needed to be done. Brown had openly thrown down a gauntlet at Shaw, casting him as an outsider, someone different. Shaw had no choice but to dispel the notion.

The two teenagers stood there, looking into each others' eyes without any emotion at all. One would have expected anger, perhaps even a kind of amusement, but the two didn't show any sign of reacting to the scene. They simply stood there, not unlike statues, neither wanting to be the first one to break. As it happened, they didn't have to.

"Michael, Richard, stop this now!" In unison, their heads swiveled to the source of the sound—Lara. "We are supposed to be allies, not enemies! Michael, you have only made the situation worse by responding to our queries cryptically. Richard, you have gone and antagonized someone who seems to be our best link to the Assassins! Can you two not see that we must speak in confidence to one another?" The two males simply looked at her, and Michael was unsure how to respond. It wasn't often that he met situations like this. He was about to speak when Lara simply threw up her hands. "Never mind; you are all the same—idiots who don't know how to treat one another with a shred of decency!" Her anger was almost palpable as she stormed out of the ready room, cursing in Russian as she went.

For a few seconds, the remaining recruits didn't say anything. They simply stared at each other, and at the hallway leading to the rooms. Richard was the first to speak. "Did she just—"

"Yep." Michael cut him off. Richard looked to Georges next. "Does she know—"

"Not a chance, _mon ami_." The Frenchman reported sadly. Brown let out a sigh.

"Shit." The word wasn't spoken in heat, more like a bitter remark on the incident.

"You got that right, brother." Michael said shortly. He looked back at Richard, then at Georges. For a short while, no one spoke. Gradually, a sly grin appeared on Georges' face.

"So, I guess this was a draw?" The two adversaries looked at each other and began grinning like madmen. Unbidden, the three began to laugh. Some things, it seemed, neither time nor the fairer sex could ever change.

"I'll settle for that. It probably would've been the same, anyway." Richard said, still chortling in amusement. Michael, for his part, nodded in good humor.

"Sorry that I blew up at you like that. If we're going to be a team, no one can afford to be an outsider. Lara's right, in that regard. We all need to trust each other. I don't know what your recruiters told you, but Guttierez—the Hispanic-looking one," he added, as he realized that he hadn't signaled out the former Marine before, "He told me what the situation for the Assassins looked like from his perspective. It's not unlike the SAS or Foreign Legion, just a lot more, I don't know, covert? That's what I've gathered, however." Richard and Georges nodded once the analogue was given. Although they were not military themselves, the reputation of their respective military units were well known.

"I take it, then, that we'll be doing something similar to what the boys at Hereford do? You know, kicking in doors, taking names, eliminating those who present a danger to others? Not all that bad a job, once you think about it." Richard shot Michael a feral grin, and Georges gave a small frown of disapproval. This didn't go unnoticed by the other two.

"You may be correct, my English comrade, but I believe that it will not be as simple as what the 'boys in Hereford' do, as you say. If what Michael says is true, then we will have to act like criminals, the assassins of fiction, in order to accomplish our tasks. Also, those military men have had decades of training and experience, while we do not. If we are to kick in doors, we run a very big risk." Georges left what that risk was unsaid; everyone was mature—and, even if they didn't want to admit it, scared—enough to grasp his meaning. "It is one thing to say you hunt deer, and another thing entirely to do so."

The American looked Georges very curiously at that last comment. Somehow, it didn't seem to fit with the mental schema that he had placed the teenager in. Seeing the look, Georges explained himself.

"I believe your American expression is, 'You must put your money where your mouth is', or something along those lines. What I mean is, we will not have the benefit of legitimacy that those units have. Because of this, we run the risk of being prosecuted not only by the enemies of the Assassins, but also the police and courts." Michael nodded in understanding, but that still hadn't satisfied his curiosity.

"I know that, but where did the deer comment come into it? No offense, but I thought European countries frowned on hunting." Georges simply shrugged.

"This is true; French laws make it very hard to hunt any game animal. However, you can still track them. I grew up in the Rhone river valley, and hiked around the countryside with my family many times. My father taught me how to track animals, and it is one of my favorite pastimes." _Now the deer comment makes sense,_ Michael thought. _You need to recognize the signs that deer leave behind in addition to being able to shoot it. Hmm…a good metaphor, I suppose._

"So, you're saying that we don't have the training to do that yet, but we will? How are they going to teach us that? I mean, we can learn how to move like soldiers with the mountains and all, but I didn't see anything like a mock-up of a building." Richard pointed out, and this made the other two think as well. How, indeed, would the Assassins train them, aside from the Animus?

"That's something we won't know until it's too late, I guess." Michael began to pace. "For now, I guess we need to focus more upon the Animus training sessions than anything else. Guttierez was a Marine, or so he told me, and Marines don't exactly go about their business without at least several different plans of action. My best guess? They'll reveal their plans as we progress through training." He shrugged. "We're just the lowly peons here; not really our place to determine the training program." The other two made similar motions, as if to say, _It's all up in the air right now._

"Do you think we should go apologize to Lara? I think she's still ticked off at us." Michael turned and looked at Richard, a questioning look on his face. "Come on, Michael. We need to clear the waters with her, so that we all don't go down in flames."

"No, no. We'll let her think it over. If she's had any interactions with testosterone-laden guys, she should realize the difference between the harmless jockeying that we did and the all-out fights that emotion-driven guys fall into. If she still persists tomorrow, we'll talk to her." The three found this to be agreeable, and quickly moved on to other subjects, primarily their backgrounds. Richard, it became known, was indeed from England, or, to be more precise, from Nottingham. He played rugby, which helped explain his physique, but, contrary to the popular stereotype, was sharp as a tack. He took high-level chemistry and physics courses, particularly anything that would cause, in his words, "a volatile and high-energy reaction—preferably explosive in nature." Georges, for his part, had learned how to draw in addition to track, and was probably in as good a condition for running as Michael. Michael himself let them only know that he was a runner and the son of a Marine; he decided that they would discover the rest on their own. When it occurred to one of them to look at a clock, they saw that it was nearly nine at night. Unspoken and at various times, the three went to their respective rooms. Michael was the last to leave, taking one last look at the Animus.

_Hard to believe that this machine can make me relive the memories of my ancestors,_ Shaw mused. _To see history, however minor, unfold before my eyes would indeed be something extraordinary. This is a historian's dream come true. But, am I prepared for all this? Can I handle it?_ The questions seemed to be probing at something deeper within his mind, something that seemed vital. It was still too vague, too indistinct, for Michael to determine what it could be that he was thinking about. Like so many other questions he had pondered, the answer, would, in all likelihood, be found in due time. Casting one more glance at the Animus, he walked out of the ready room, hitting a switch on his way out. As he left, the only lighting left was a low blue along the walls, giving the Animus a slightly eerie look.

* * *

Michael awoke in a cold sweat, and quickly looked around, his eyes flitting back and forth over what he could see of his room. The dream sensation of movement was still with him, and he tried to decipher what his muscles had been told to do. It felt like he had been…falling. The thought scared him; one of his recurring nightmares was being thrown from a great height.

Slowly, he swung his legs out from the bed and began to dress into the 'uniform' that he had established for himself. Glancing at the clock, he saw the time. _Zero five forty-five. No one will be up, except maybe for the trainers. Ah, well._ Quickly setting his room in order, he stepped carefully out into the hallway; his rude encounter with Lara was still on his mind. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday, if he could help it. Quietly, he began to walk to the ready room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the low light. If one saw the way he was walking, it would have seemed very odd. The heel of his boot would hit the ground first, and the rest of his foot would roll down slowly, while the other foot would be at an angle and moving forward. Although time-consuming, it caused Michael to make very little noise. Just as he entered the ready room, he heard one of the doors open, and froze.

"Up, up, everyone up!" A parade-ground voice cut through the air, accompanied by the sudden banging of a fist on doors. Turning around to observe, Michael watched as Guttierez's words caused a delayed reaction. One by one, doors opened along his bay, and sleep-tousled heads and bleary eyes greeted the rude awakening.

"Let's go, people! We have a lot of work to do today, no gaggling! Move, move, move!" The voice increased in volume and harshness, sending the recruits scrambling back to their rooms, probably to get dressed very quickly. Michael made his way into the ready room and sat down at the briefing table, half-expecting to see Guttierez come rushing in, swearing up a storm. To the trainer's credit, however, he let the recruits straggle in, blinking the sleep from their eyes. Michael nodded to each one, knowing full well that most people weren't accustomed to waking up before six in the morning.

"Ah, Shaw, you're here first. Good, that means you get to be the guinea pig of the group. But, first, a briefing." Guttierez said much more calmly, as Burroughs and the two other Assassins followed behind him. Taking their respective seats on the opposite sides, Guttierez began the briefing.

"For those of you who don't know me, I'm Guttierez. Going down the table, we have Collin Burroughs, our historian and mechanical expert; Jean-Paul Moreau, our unarmed and edged weapons combat instructor; and finally Pietro Ricci, our tech geek and 'secret squirrel'—intelligence, that is. You'll be rotating through the Animus and these instructors for the next week, with the exception of Ricci—he has to monitor you guys when in the Animus, to limit your exposures.

"The training will be rough, I won't lie to you. In addition to the Animus, you'll be expected to do daily physical conditioning; practice combat sparring and maneuvers; learning the history and psychology of politics, warfare, and assassination; and, finally, learning how to work as a team. The Assassins are under attack, make no mistake. Last night, over in Europe, we received word that a whole team—eight people—were found dead. Just gone, their throats slit and the bodies dumped into the Seine. We need more people, and we need them yesterday, as the saying goes.

"Shaw, you're up first for the Animus. Kuretznovna, you're with Burroughs on history for now. Brown, you belong to Moreau for unarmed combat. Languedoc, you're with me on the range for the time being."

"Why does Michael get to go in the Animus? Luck of the draw, or something?" Richard inquired, a genuinely curious look on his face.

"_Ti ne podmakhiva, tovarich_." The words were muttered, almost inaudible, but in the quiet that followed the Englishman's question, Lara's words were heard clearly by everyone.

"I'm sorry, Lara, I couldn't hear you. Could you translate that into English, please?" Moreau asked, a smirk playing across his face. Apparently, the Frenchman knew Russian and English in addition to his native language. Lara's cheeks and neck flushed, and Michael surmised that what she had said was something best left unknown.

"Well, let's be about it, shall we?" Burroughs asked, attempting to break the impasse, and the group suddenly split off, with Moreau and Guttierez disappearing down the hallway to the stairwell with their charges, Burroughs to the library area with Lara, and Ricci sitting at the array of computers next to the Animus. Nervously, Michael eyed the machine, not knowing what to do.

"Just sit down, my friend. It won't bite, at least, not much." Ricci laughed at his own little joke and gestured to the medical panel. "It has an IV line and catheter there, to make sure you don't dehydrate. We've discovered, after a fashion, that you use fluids like electrolytes and water at a much faster rate than normal, probably due to increased brain activity. It'll sting a bit, but you'll be fine." Nodding, and not without some trepidation, Michael leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes as the needle slipped into his vein. Hissing more out of fear than pain, he let his mind begin to zone out. As he faded, he heard Ricci speaking to him.

"According to our analysis, you're related to an Assassin by the name of Franz Schuler, who lived during the Napoleonic Wars. As his name implies, he's Prussian. We'll let you get used to the Animus, and go back to the first memory that we can find for you. Observe what you can; who knows, you might learn something the historians missed."


	6. From Defeat, A Phoenix Arises

**A/N: ****Wow, it's been a while. Never thought that school, track, and ROTC prep would take so much out of me. Updates will continue to be sporadic, unfortunately. All the same, please review and critique.**

**All OCs, such as Michael Shaw, his team, the ancestors, and the trainers, are my creations. AC, AC2, and AC:B are the property of Ubisoft Montreal.**

Chapter Six: From Defeat, A Phoenix Arises

It was the void. No light, no sound, no feeling at all. It was like Michael was in a zero-g environment, in blackest space. As he observed, the space that he could see gradually became lighter, building up to a pure white light. For a while, it remained that way, and Michael began wondering if the Animus was malfunctioning. Then, an intense flash, not unlike a camera strobe, appeared, and his vision was cut off. His thoughts, however, were still intact. _So, the game begins, I guess._

The space around him began to assume shapes and definition. Gradually, oh so gradually, the outlines of buildings began to appear, along with the lines of streets and the natural shapes of the world. It was like seeing a city built from the ground up, with cathedrals and palaces soaring over small but strong houses and shops. Orderly, well-maintained streets appeared, and storefronts with a variety of color and lighting made their marks. As Michael saw all of this, he noticed that people began to populate the streets, simply appearing out of nowhere and going about their business, whatever it might have been. The 'camera', for lack of a better term, shifted in view to track one individual in particular. He was of average height for the time, with black hair and blue eyes. Although it was clear that he wasn't poor, he also wasn't rich, if his dress was anything to go by. Then again, one could easily claim that he was rich by looking at his clothing. A green coat with a red collar made him stand out from the crowd, along with subdued but still noticeable shoulder boards, indicating his rank as a captain of infantry. A sword hung on his hip, and a casual glance would have revealed that the weapon was clearly designed and used for war, not ceremony. He certainly had the walk of a soldier—confident, strong, with measured steps and a general bearing that offered no possibility of argument. However, in the crowd, he was simply another person, no one special. It was as if the people wanted to avoid him, wanted to have nothing to do with him. As Michael watched the man, he felt himself slipping away, until his conscience was entirely subdued by another presence.

* * *

Berlin, Prussia, 23 July 1807

_Hauptmann_ Franz Schuler walked through Berlin's streets, knowing that his uniform was something that the ordinary citizen did not take pride in. Instead, whenever he wore it, he felt reviled, as if he was less than human. He couldn't blame the populace, however; the Lady Fate had decided to go against Prussia this time. Looking up, he saw his destination, and increased his pace. The sooner he could get in from the streets, the better. As he walked, a detachment of soldiers came marching down the street, as if they owned the world. Acting quickly, Schuler stepped off to the side and assumed a position of attention, as custom now dictated. Leading the detachment of soldiers was a mere cornet, fresh out of officer training. A sneer appeared on the younger man's face as he saw Schuler brace to attention, and he deigned to not acknowledge the gesture of military courtesy. As the white-clad soldiers passed by, Schuler allowed himself an expression of disgust as soon as the last line had passed. The French had arrived, and with them the degrading of Prussia to a second-class power. Schuler once again resumed his walk, and soon came upon his destination—a modest, two story house that stood out strangely in contrast to the much more richly decorated houses in the area. Knocking, he nervously looked around him, to see if anyone was watching him.

He heard a deadbolt draw back, and the door opened up slightly. Upon seeing the green and red of Schuler's coat, the door was opened swiftly, and Schuler went inside rapidly. Not without haste, the door was closed and the deadbolt latched once again. The man who had let Schuler in waited several moments, both of them looking at the door, hands on sword grips. To their visible relief, no one rapped authoritatively on the door, nor did someone attempt to break it down. _At least no one followed me; that's nice to know._ The man who had let Schuler in turned to him, and the captain once again braced to attention, this time out of respect. Major General Gerhard von Scharnhorst looked back at him levelly.

"Captain Schuler, it is good to see you again. I trust that you did not cause any trouble in coming here?" The voice was low, but curt, with a core of steel about it. Not daring to speak, Schuler simply shook his head in response. It wasn't often that a mere captain would be in the presence of a general, much less one with such a reputation for command and intelligence. Seeing the younger man's nervousness, Scharnhorst's features softened.

"It is quite all right to speak, Franz. You are among friends here, away from French eyes and ears." The general clapped Schuler on the shoulder, and motioned to the rest of the house. "Come. Now that you are here, we can begin our discussion. There is much to be done, Franz, much indeed." The older man led the way into the rest of the house, and Schuler assumed a more relaxed position as he followed his superior. The house itself was simple, yet had a kind of ordered beauty. Dark wood was present everywhere, and windows let in light that bathed some rooms in subdued yet pleasing color. Despite all this, however, Schuler knew that this was a temporary dwelling, or, at least, a house let out for rent. No personal touches could be found, nothing to speak to the character of a bachelor, widower, or married couple. He had seen such houses, even spent weeks in one, but to see that such houses were now common…It disturbed Schuler. It was a sign of things taking a turn for the worst. _As if having the French have the run of Berlin wasn't bad enough…_

Such thoughts, however, were cut off once the two men entered what would be considered the study of the house. There, gathered around a table, were several other officers, all senior in rank compared to Schuler. Interestingly, there were only two generals; the others were field-grade officers, a highly unusual situation. As one, the officers rose and snapped to attention as the two walked in. Taking position at a chair by the wall, Schuler waited for Scharnhorst to begin.

"Please, gentlemen, be seated. I am glad that you could all make it," the general added, as he took his own seat at the head of the table, as tradition dictated. With a subtle scraping of chair legs on wood, the others took their seats. "Now, then, let me begin. As you know, Prussia has been defeated heavily—too heavily, in fact. Major von Boyen, you were present at Tilsit. Would you kindly summarize the military consequences of that treaty?" The question was directed at one of the only field-grade officers in the room. Von Boyen, a long-faced, dark haired individual, stood and began speaking in a measured, deep voice.

"Yes, sir. As many of you no doubt no, Prussia lost significant territory as a result of the treaty. Whether this was done to punish Prussia for fighting, or to reduce the threat we pose to Napoleon, I do not know. However, the fact remains that we are now allied, both politically and militarily, to France. This means that, should any expedition be launched by Napoleon, we must give him troops should he make such a request. Additionally, Prussia can have a standing army of no more than forty-two thousand. In this, we—" The major was cut off as one of the generals slammed his fist down on the table.

"Forty-two thousand only! Who was the idiot that agreed to _that_ term?" Schuler recognized the speaker—Gebhard Blucher, one of the 'old men' of the army. Surprisingly, he was technically Scharnhorst's superior, yet he was not chairing the meeting. As Schuler reflected upon this, Blucher went on. "If we have only that much, Napoleon will crush us if he so decides! Who's to say that he didn't want to tame Prussia first before he conquered her completely?" The question, more like an accusation, hung in the air, making the others uncomfortable. In the silence that followed, Scharnhorst cleared his throat.

"General Blucher, you would be advised to have a complete picture _before_ you start to cast imprecations at someone who is nominally our superior." In contrast to the warm tone he had assumed with Schuler, the general's voice was now as cold as ice, and about as inviting of dissent. He stared at Blucher, almost daring him to respond and make things worse for him. After a few second, Blucher looked away, staring fixedly at the wall. Satisfied, Scharnhorst made a little motion for the major to proceed. Nodding gladly, the relief that the younger man felt was clearly seen in a relaxation of his body.

"As I was saying, in this we are limited to several brigades of infantry, each with several squadrons of cavalry, and three brigades of artillery. As to why we have received this limitation, I suppose it was the best deal that could be made, if we still wanted to remain a nation at all. In any case, we can still train troops and run a military organization, even if it is small." Von Boyen took his seat quickly, as if the performance had taxed his abilities almost to the breaking point. Once again, silence predominated, and Scharnhorst had guide the conversation.

"As you can see, gentlemen, we still have a military, even if it has been drastically reduced in size. What I want to know, however, is not what we can do with this force, but rather what caused us to have this force thrust upon us. How were we defeated so badly at Jena, at Auerstdedt? What made Napoleon win and our forces lose?" Blucher, still staring at the wall, visibly flinched and looked at Scharnhorst, a suspicious look on his face. The younger general saw this and chuckled slightly. "No, General, I am not making an imprecation against you. Your corps performed splendidly, as well as anyone could in a situation like that. No, what I'm wondering is why our army as a whole failed to measure up to our expectations."

_Ah, now the purpose of the summons becomes clear. But, what can I say about it? I am simply a captain of infantry, not a staff officer._ Schuler, still sitting in his chair by the wall, began to muse to himself as the officers around the table began to look at each other, and down at whatever papers they had in front of them. _Is the general saying that we were under the spell of an illusion, that we could not tell the difference between fact and fiction?_ Schuler didn't know how the conversation would progress, and felt that it wasn't his place to say so; he was only a captain here, the least senior officer present.

"Are you saying, sir, that something is wrong with our military?" Surprisingly, it was von Boyen who spoke, despite the nervousness that he had exhibited only a few moments before. The man was certainly brave for saying that which his superiors would not; perhaps, by saying so, the others would speak in turn. Scharnhorst nodded in the major's direction.

"That is exactly what I'm saying, Hermann. Gentlemen, Prussia once had the finest fighting force on the face of the earth, and now, we have been humiliated by the French, whom we've beaten back time and again. What went wrong?" Scharnhorst stared at each officer individually. Each met his eyes; each eventually turned away and stared down at the table, unable to match his gaze. "Gentlemen, let me be clear. I have no love for the French, and we all have every reason to feel angry towards them. What we do with that anger, however, decides the fate of the army. What must we do to make our army better, to once again become the finest force in Europe?" For a time, no one spoke. Then, a new voice sounded.

"We used the tactics that we have always used, and we were defeated. Napoleon does not move his forces the way we do, nor utilize them the way we do. Perhaps an answer lies in his methods." Schuler didn't recognize the speaker, but it was clear, from his uniform, that the man was a staff officer. To his considerable surprise, the others began nodding. Blucher himself gave the officers a rueful grin.

"That, my boy, is a good summation of the problem. Napoleon is doing something new in warfare, something that we are not accustomed to. So, how can we adapt to it? Suggestions, gentlemen?" The general looked around at the conference table, most notably at Scharnhorst. In a flash, the pieces fell into place for Schuler. _This is a show, a play. Blucher and Scharnhorst wanted the conversation to take this direction from the start; the others do not know it. But, it does not reek of politics. What are they up to?_ Schuler decided to keep silent and simply observe what would happen; he had a feeling that he would learn a lot in the coming minutes.

"Well, a good place to start would be to see how Napoleon wins the loyalty of his soldiers, I guess." The officers looked to the staff officer once again. For a young man, he seemed very perceptive, or inquisitive. "Think about it. How does a ruler convince men, of any background, to take up arms and follow him? I know that Napoleon has his '_levee en masse_', but what about the officers? Most are not of the nobility, compared to what most of Europe has." From his last comment, Schuler assumed that the staff officer was a noble, like so many of the men present. It made his less-than-blue-blooded upbringing come to his mind in stark relief.

"That is more of an abstract question than anything else right now, Karl." A new man, one who held the _Pour le Merite_, one of Prussia's highest decorations, spoke up. With the insignia of a lieutenant colonel, it appeared that he had done something very significant to earn the award. "A better question, I think, is what the structure of Napoleon's forces are. How well do they communicate? How well do they interact with other parts of the battlefield? How are they trained?" The triad of questions slammed upon the listeners quickly, and the officer continued. "Knowing how the army operates as a series of units, I think, is a more immediate problem than attempting to determine the motives of those who serve France." Blucher began to nod in agreement, while Scharnhorst's face quickly turned pensive, and then reverted to a neutral one.

"I, for one, agree with Colonel von Gneisenau," Blucher started. "If we can replicate the abilities that Napoleon's army has demonstrated, if not improve upon them, then we might be able to once again fight with a capacity for victory that we showed back when Frederick the Second was the king." The others nodded, the older ones somewhat wistfully, perhaps remembering stories handed down from fathers and grandfathers. Von Gneisenau, however, simply sighed and put a hand over his forehead, a rather frank gesture.

"Where is Clausewitz when you need him? He's always been good at these kinds of questions. Sir, do you know where he is?" The question was addressed to Scharnhorst, who had a far-off look in his eyes.

"Last I heard, he was still a prisoner in France. We can only hope that he will eventually be released; God above knows that he really is rather good at questions like these. If I had the pull, I would have attached him to my staff, but as it is…" Scharnhorst's voice trailed off, as if he was lost in thought. Smiling a sad smile, the general brought himself back to the present. "As you can see, the task before us is not easy. We must learn how Napoleon fights, true, but we must also determine how we can adapt those methods to our forces. This, too, brings up another point. We can only have a standing army of forty-two thousand, but it said nothing about militias. Colonel von Gneisenau, could you possibly find a way to use our conscription service to achieve that end?" The colonel nodded, and soon orders were flowing from Blucher and Scharnhorst. The staff officer was told to study the skirmisher units of the French army; a colonel was told to study French supply mechanisms; a major was told to investigate how the French infantry, cavalry, and artillery interacted with each other. As the orders were received, more questions arose, dealing with nearly every aspect of the Prussian military experience. Schuler was privately amazed at the scene before him. It was like a levee had broken, and a frank discussion of Prussia's military shortcomings had occurred for the first time. He reflected that it was better that the leading figures of the army were taking the lead. _If junior officers like myself started asking these questions, and didn't get any answers, a coup would be a very real possibility._ As he pondered the implications of his thoughts, the meeting seemed to draw to a close. Scharnhorst stood, and the officers gathered at the table did likewise.

"Gentlemen, I will give you all a week to come up with your reports, but these should be considered preliminary drafts. As we learn more about French capabilities and methods, you will refine your reports as necessary. Make no mistake, gentlemen: What we are doing here must be for the good of Prussia, not for the good of our own careers. Good luck, and Godspeed." The officers came to attention briefly, and then began to move out towards the hall, as if they were going to leave the house in droves. Schuler looked questioningly at his superior, and a warning look was shot at the captain. Taking the cue, Schuler said nothing, and waited for the officers to file out of the room. Blucher remained behind, ushering the men out of the study, until it was only the two generals and the captain remaining. Closing the door, Scharnhorst looked at the younger man.

"I presume that you are wondering why you are here." It was a clear statement, not a question. Glancing quickly at Blucher, Schuler nodded, unsure of how the conversation would progress. "I thought as much. Schuler, I will be frank with you: Blucher and I have spent the last several years, if not decades, in higher command. Our years as line officers have gone away, except, of course, whenever the general here decides to charge the enemy." A sly grin appeared on Scharnhorst's face, and Blucher gave a miff of annoyance. Schuler blanched at the sight. _A subordinate making fun of a superior to his face? Impossible!_ He didn't have time to pursue that line of thought, though.

"As such, we felt, going into this, that we needed someone with the most recent line experience possible. Please, do not misunderstand me; the men that you saw here today are some of the best field commanders that Prussia has. However, they are becoming more and more concerned with how to exercise that field command, and less with the men who are actually doing the fighting. I have seen what you have done, at least, in records. At Jena, you were outnumbered, yet you were among the last to abandon your position. According to accounts," the older man took a quick look at one of the papers before him, "You fought hand-to-hand with a large group of Imperial Grenadiers, taking down all of them with just your sword. Not a normal feat, that. You would have earned a commendation or promotion for that, if it wasn't for your stubbornness." At this, both Blucher and Scharnhorst fixed the captain with a look that made him feel like an errant schoolboy caught by the headmaster in the process of a prank.

"Despite that," Blucher picked up, "we feel that you are a man we can trust. Unlike so many of your fellow line officers, who abandoned their positions once it became clear that the French would win, you held off till the last possible moment. That is the sort of dedication that we need in our line officers; it's not something that we can teach these new officers. Do you follow us so far? You can speak, you know." Schuler nodded, and spoke for the first time.

"I believe I understand what you are trying to say to me, sir. You want someone with the most recent combat experience available to this…committee. You want that person to act as an advisor, to compare experience with what the committee recommends, and, wherever possible, to put those recommendations into effect. In essence, you want me to create experiments based upon what the reports come up with. However, you want this individual to keep what is said here and in the future in complete confidence and confidentiality. Am I right, so far?" His voice was deep, and somewhat grating, like stones rolling over each other. The true measure of his words, however blunt and to the point, lay in his eyes. They were bright and animated, yet cold at the same time. It bespoke of an unwillingness to tolerate fools, as well as the finer arts of diplomatic language and circumlocutions. If one wanted to speak to Schuler, the eyes proclaimed, one would best be quick and to the point about it. The two generals looked at each other.

"Well, in all honesty, yes, Franz. Both General Blucher and I feel that you are very well suited for this assignment. Your record speaks for itself, and you have that ability to lay out in life what others are able to envision. As the General mentioned, such a trait is rare, especially today. The younger officers are more concerned with following orders to the letter and advancing their own careers than with getting the orders executed well in concept, not in writing. Do you think that you can handle this?" Scharnhorst spoke, a weariness coming over his face. In response, Schuler gave a respectful bow of his head—the most agreement that could be coaxed out of him. "Thank you, Franz. One last word, before we part. What we are doing now is not officially sanctioned. I have no doubt that we will be ordered to create a committee to reform the military, and if that happens, I want to be ready the instant the order is carried down the chain of command. Until such time, however, remember this: We could easily be prosecuted for spying or treason, should our investigations reach word of the French. Be careful of who you speak to, Franz. The French, for all their rhetoric, do not consider themselves allies of Prussia, but masters. That is all, Captain." Scharnhorst inclined his head in dismissal. Like the other officers, Schuler braced to attention, and quickly exited the room. As he passed, Scharnhorst couldn't help but note a small burn on the inside of the captain's ring finger. _A freak accident, I suppose.  
_

* * *

Stepping back out onto the streets of Berlin, Schuler heaved a sigh of relief. The room had been oppressive, and the time he had spent with the two generals had put him on edge. It wasn't what they had asked him; no, what had put him on edge was knowing that there was a traitor in the room. He had seen one of the colonels taking what seemed to be excessive notes, while everyone else seemed more interested in thinking of replies that either answered a question or posed a new one. As Schuler had focused on the man, the colonel had moved his hand onto the table, and there it was—A ring with the cross of the Templars. Schuler hadn't reacted, knowing that it would have led to his exposure, but to know that there were still Templars in Prussia, after all the Brotherhood's sweeps, was not only a professional affront—it was very nearly a personal one. _Then again, the war has limited our numbers drastically. Those not at the front have either been relocated throughout Germany, or have fled to England or Russia._ Schuler pondered those thoughts as he walked down the street, where he thought his target would go. Colonel Klaus Schmidt had been a daring cavalry officer in the retreat from Auerstdedt, which was probably why he had attracted the attention of Blucher and Scharnhorst. Yet, Schuler couldn't take that chance.

_I'm guessing that he lives in Berlin…I didn't see a wedding ring…probably at the garrison._ It was rudimentary guess work, at best, but it would have to do. Unlike so many of his Assassin counterparts, he did not have the gift of Eagle vision. It hampered the work he did on his own, but he had learned to be more observant than usual of his environment. In many ways, he considered his own ability a blessing; when seconds really did matter, he was able to make the most of them. Although seeing an enemy before they struck was useful, being able to react to, overcome, and conquer that opponent was much better, in his admittedly biased opinion. Walking quickly down the side of the street, he saw the main garrison house of the Berlin barracks before him. If officers didn't have a place to stay in the city, they could get a room at the garrison free of charge; Schuler himself had used the service early in his career. As luck would have it, he glimpsed Schmidt at the guardhouse, attempting to get past the sentry on duty. Walking by normally, he noted what the colonel was wearing. _Dark blue tunic, black riding boots, white breeches, black hat with gold trim. Red collar and shoulder insignia. As good as dead._ The colonel did not appear to notice the captain; after all, why would he? A colonel of cavalry had nothing to talk to with a captain of infantry, unless said captain had failed to support the cavalry, of course.

Finally, the colonel gained entrance and sauntered off, clearly annoyed at the delay. Schuler, however, was not hampered by such protocol. Disappearing down a side alley, he looked up and down to see if there was any way he could get up to the roofs. Spotting a ladder, he quickly went up and stepped onto the roof, judging the distance between it and the roof of the garrison's walls. _Too far if I start from here, but from the other side…_Running quickly to the opposite end of the roof, he aimed himself at the garrison and sprinted off, intent on building up enough speed so that he wouldn't fall down into the streets and injure himself. As he reached the edge, he put on a final burst of speed and pushed off with his legs, soaring into space. If anyone had been bothered to look up, they would have been treated to a very odd sight indeed—a Prussian officer being hurled into the air, but calmly looking forward, as if he was completely confident that he would be uninjured upon impact. And so it was.

In a flash, the garrison roof's edge passed underneath him, and he braced himself for the impact. With a solid _thump_, he landed on the tiled roof, and windmilled his arms to regain balance. Checking himself over, Schuler found that no injuries had been sustained. _Well, that's good, for now._ Peering down into the courtyard, he saw the colonel begin to walk towards the officer's quarters, confirming his instincts. Cautiously, Schuler followed from the rooftops, trying to keep his target in sight whenever possible. Occasionally, the colonel would disappear behind a wall or colonnade, and Schuler would stop, finding whatever concealment that he could. Waiting patiently, he would wait until he saw the man reappear, and then continue to follow him. In short order, Schuler found himself at the officer's quarters, and knew he had to tread carefully, in more ways than one. As with any other military, officers in the Prussian army were offered increased security, security that Schuler would have to bypass without being seen. Then, too, there was the matter of discovering which room the colonel was in. He couldn't do one without sacrificing the other. Or, could he…?

Taking a risk, he quickly ran along the roof, approaching the gap between his roof and the officer quarters' as he did so. It was smaller than the gap between the barracks and the rest of Berlin, just small enough for him to be a simple blur in the sky. There was just one problem—there was a guard right beneath him, most likely. There were two outcomes to Schuler's admittedly rash plan. He only hoped that it would be the one wherein he lived.

Pushing off of the edge of the roof, he tucked his knees up in order to gain clearance, just barely making it. As he landed, he lost his balance, and pitched forward onto the roof, making a muffled _thud_ and sending a tile skittering off the roof and onto the ground, where it shattered with a—to the Assassin—loud crack. Schuler froze, waiting for the inevitable. He hadn't forgotten what had happened during one of his training sessions at night—sound is always louder then. In the silence that followed, nothing could be heard. Then, a tired curse was heard, and the sounds of the everyday bustle of the garrison returned. Schuler relaxed and slowly crept across the roof, careful not to have the same thing happen again. Gaining the peak, he looked out into the courtyard of the quarters, waiting to see if his target was there.

_Think, boy, think…blue coat, red insignia, white breeches, black and gold hat. How hard can it be to miss him?_ The Prussian thought that his target would let down his guard, would allow himself the luxury of ignoring the world around him. Unfortunately, striking the target required knowing where the target was. Schuler thought he would emerge into the courtyard soon, if he conformed to the pattern like a good German. _Wouldn't it be embarrassing if someone saw me now…_The sun shone down on Schuler, clearly highlighting him against the dark tiles of the roof. In addition to the sun, however, the heat was beginning to take its toll on Schuler—if he stayed out too long, he would be dehydrated, would begin to lose rationality, and do something stupid. _Come on, colonel, out you go…_

As Schuler had predicted, Colonel Schmidt didn't have his guard up. Strutting into the courtyard like the veritable barnyard cock, he went straight to a door across the way, not taking the time to look at who might be nearby. Schuler's eyes immediately narrowed as he tracked the man, observing what he could see of weaponry or defensive measures. Before he could get a good look, though, the colonel disappeared through the door. Easing himself back down, Schuler jogged across the roof at an angle, circling around behind the colonel's room. The problem, of course, was now in getting down and into the room without being noticed. Schuler didn't have any fear of the guards—after all, they were there to make sure no one got in, and didn't actually go into the quarters—but he did have a fear of fellow officers seeing him. In the now-downsized Prussian Army, officers still had to be discharged or otherwise reassigned, and a great many were still in Berlin. If anyone saw him, and later ran across him in an official capacity…

_Enough thinking, more doing, lad. Schmidt is a threat to the General; if we want to beat Napoleon, we need to get rid of traitors. Or, in this case, a potential one._ It wouldn't do to simply land in the courtyard—it was all stone, and he didn't feel like injuring his legs. There were no ladders nearby either, not that he expected any. That left going down the old-fashioned way, but it was also the most dangerous in terms of staying aware of his surroundings. If someone walked into the courtyard while he was going down, he faced a challenge indeed. However, there was no other way. Gingerly approaching the ledge, he turned around, grabbed it with his hands, and swung down. Thankfully, the surface of the exterior was rough enough for him to grab onto bricks, the edges of windows, and a random column that some soul thought had needed to be there. After a few nerve-wracking minutes, he was down and outside. Reaching into the coat of his pocket, Schuler felt around for a few seconds, then froze.

_Damnit, I could've sworn I had them…Oh, well. Time to improvise._ Schuler looked at the door, more specifically, at the lock over the doorknob. He didn't know if it was obstructed, but he could easily work with it. Making a surreptitious motion with his wrist, he extended the hidden blade, between his coat and shirtsleeve. Extending out several inches, it would have to do the job. Carefully, he inserted the blade into the lock, moving it up and down, side to side. Picking locks was never his forte, but he knew how to do so in a general fashion. Looking over his shoulder, he tried to see if anyone was approaching him. Seeing no one, he went back to working on the lock, now getting frustrated. _Open up, impudent lock!_

It was as if the lock had heard him. With a muffled _clack_ the lock sprang open. Extracting the hidden blade, he tested the knob, and followed the door in, ready to fight. To his considerable surprise, there was no one there. Closing the door quietly, Schuler simply stood and waited for the first hint of an opponent. Still, there were no indications that his presence had been noted. Slowly, Schuler advanced into the colonel's quarters, eyes flitting back and forth constantly. He caught sight of the coat, hanging over a chair, and his guard went up. Standing still, the Prussian waited to hear the sounds of the colonel's footsteps. Once again, not a sound was heard. Schuler thought quickly about his situation. _No sign of boots, so he probably still has them on…but his coat is here. That indicates he's wary, but comfortable enough to expect that no one will follow him. A dangerous one, this is. I would not be surprised if he has a sword on him._ Schuler waited still, eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, looking for all the world like a statue. Then, it happened.

_Click._ A latch was opened, and a door creaked on its hinges. Even though his eyes were closed, Schuler could almost see and feel the door open, as if it was an extension of his body. Opening his eyes, his normal green was replaced by a bright gold. He saw the sword before he saw the arm that held it, but it did not matter. It seemed like the sword was moving slowly, as if cutting through molasses, and it gave Schuler time to react. Sidestepping, he began to fall into a crouch as he looked at his assailant. The sword was raised in a high guard, and Schuler knew that he was at a disadvantage. Disadvantage, however, did not translate into lost. Extending his hidden blade, Schuler feinted towards his opponent, then moved away as the sword began to fall. Looking up slowly, he looked at the face of the man, and it confirmed his suspicions. _So, the good colonel __**was**__ expecting something. But was it me, or something else?_ The thought was quickly banished to the back of his mind as he focused on the fight.

Seeing an advantage, Schuler shoved his blade at the Prussian colonel, whose sword was by now in a low guard. Schuler didn't hesitate to make the most of the opportunity, and he faintly heard the man scream as his blade sheathed itself in the swordsman's arm. Then, slowly, the world returned to normal. The man's screams were ear-splitting as he dropped the sword, making a faint clatter in comparison. Frowning in disgust, Schuler made a fist and slammed it into the officer's stomach, attempting to make him more compliant. As intended, the man keeled over, by now in too much pain and confusion to only moan. Withdrawing the blade with a violent jerk that transmitted into his victim, Schuler slammed the man onto the floor and rammed his knee onto the man's chest, effectively establishing control over him. As he looked down at the Prussian, the gold that was in his eyes slowly receded, and the green returned. The eyes became hardened, and focused on the Templar beneath him.

"How long have you been here, working your way into the army? How long have you given the French our plans, our stratagems? Surely you didn't think you would get away with this, Templar." To his credit, Schmidt didn't respond; instead, he fixed the Assassin with a glare of silent defiance. _I see that a pleasant inquiry will not work with this one._ Without warning, he punched the Templar across the face, followed up by a solid rap on the man's chest. Bucking in pain, the Prussian attempted to throw Schuler off, but another blow quickly solved that.

"If you speak, you can make the pain stop. Tell me what you want to know, and it will end." The Templar stared back at the Assassin with eyes like that of a frightened animal, knowing only the pain of the moment and not considering the future, only the present.

"Yes, yes, as you wish!" The Templar's body relaxed, perhaps grateful that he hadn't been hit more. Schuler didn't let his guard down, however; he knew that this was the most dangerous part of interrogation.

"How long have you been a Templar? How long have you been a traitor to your country?" Schuler inquired coldly, his eyes dark, concealing what he felt for the man he held captive.

"Since the Revolution, in France." The man coughed, in an attempt to alleviate the pain in his chest. "They approached me with offers of riches, power…How could I not refuse?"

"How many are here in Berlin, how many in Napoleon's army?" Schuler knew that time was running short, and that he needed to get vital intelligence as quickly as possible.

"I am but one of many, too many for you to confront. We have cut off all escape for you, Assassin. Prussia shall rise no more." A dangerous glint appeared in the colonel's eyes, and Schuler knew, then and there, that he needed to act.

"That's where you are wrong, my friend. The Revolution gave us ideals that we actually believe in, not ones that we hijack for our own uses." The hidden blade appeared, and the glint of fury was instead replaced by one of fear. "_Requiescat en pace_, Klaus Schmidt." The blade sank quickly and deeply into the man's throat, and he bucked ever so slightly. Schuler stayed there for a few seconds, waiting for the motion to cease, not wanting to leave a telltale. Slowly, he withdrew the blade, and instead of the geyser of blood that usually erupted from throat and head wounds, a trickle appeared from it instead, having had time to settle. Standing, Schuler quickly checked himself for blood, and was pleased to find none, a very rare occurrence. Looking over the late colonel's quarters, he attempted to find any incriminating evidence of the man's treachery. Rifling through the man's desk, he found several letters with French names that he recognized, ones addressed to generals in Napoleon's army, as well as others sealed with a design similar to the Templar ring. In light of how much time had already passed, Schuler had no choice but to simply seize them and move on; there would be time for analysis later. Only one task remained before he had to leave. Gently taking the dead man's hand, he slipped the ring off, pocketing it. Schuler didn't want to leave any more clues than necessary for any investigators to decipher. The more it looked like a simple though gruesome murder, the better.

Checking the window to see if anyone was outside, Schuler was pleased to see that no one was there. Walking out of the quarters, he knew that the guard had probably changed by then—to judge from the sun, it looked like three in the afternoon. Walking briskly towards the exit, he saw the same guard as before. _Damn. Well, have to do this one way or another…_Without breaking stride, he walked up to the guard, who still showed no sign of reaction. As he drew abreast of the man, whom Schuler saw had corporal's stripes, the man snapped to attention, but didn't shout out a warning or issue a demand. Schuler nodded in acknowledgment of the sentry, and the guard relaxed, going back to the position of ease that he had been in. As Schuler walked past, the corporal didn't attempt to stop him. _I suppose that it really was that simple._ Schuler kept his pace and stride, walking through the entire garrison, which had no idea that a traitor in their midst had just been eliminated. As he finally stepped out onto the streets of Berlin, he slowed down his pace and began to simply walk, enjoying what little time he had before the sun set. He had a feeling that he would have to be patrolling that night, but it was up to the Brotherhood to determine if he would go alone or with a team that night…

* * *

Assassin Training Complex, Present Day

The world came back into focus, and Michael blinked his eyes as he found himself staring not on Berlin's streets, but at the ceiling of the ready room. Slowly, he moved his head, and caught sight of Ricci, who looked up from his computers.

"Ah, you're awake! _Va bene_. Let me just get the IV out." Ricci stood up and move over to the Animus, and Michael was reminded of the needle in his arm. Freezing up, he stared at the IV line with mute fear, his pulse hammering the longer he stared at it. With a quick, practiced motion, Ricci withdrew the needle and pressed a gauze pad onto his arm at the same time. Wrapping some medical tape around it, he looked at the teenager sternly.

"Don't remove this for at least three hours. If you do, you could irritate the opening more than it should, and…well, I'll leave the consequences of that up to your imagination." Ricci carefully moved the needle over to a covered bucket and dropped it in point first, making sure that it landed where it should. "Stand up slowly, and then make your way over to Burroughs. You'll be debriefed, and then he'll take over instruction." Michael nodded and swung his legs onto the floor, noticing how heavy they felt. Taking the Assassin's advice, he stood up slowly, and soon discovered why. The world seemed to be on a constantly moving axis, and he felt himself getting disoriented.

"Easy there, lad." A voice sounded, and Michael felt someone grab his arms and begin to move him over towards the bookcases. "Just a few feet further, and then you can tell up from down." Michael recognized the voice as Burroughs', and trusted that the man knew what he was doing. Slowly, the Assassin pushed the recruit down into one of the chairs, taking his own seat and waiting patiently for Michael to regain control of his senses.

"Wow. That was…different." Michael's eyes were still unfocused from the trip, but he tried to focus on Burroughs anyways. "Is it always like that, the first time?" The Englishman shrugged.

"I'm not quite sure. Some have no trouble adapting, while others have had a much rougher go at it. In time, however, it will become easier for you to handle the Animus." Burroughs paused, watching the younger man curiously. "I know that you only got a small piece of your ancestor's life, but did you notice anything interesting? Anything that was different from the historical record?"

Michael pondered the question. He hadn't studied Prussia in school, or at least in-depth. To the best of his knowledge, what he had seen was all true to the record. "I'm not sure…Wait. There was something. It's happened to me before, when I was…shot at." He looked at Burroughs; more of the room was coming into focus.

"Schuler seemed to see everything in a 'bullet time' sense when that colonel attacked him. It was slow motion, yet he reacted quickly enough to turn the tables on his opponent. The same thing happened to me before you contacted me, when I had to fight." Burroughs leaned back in his seat, a pensive look on his face. "What? Does that mean something?"

Burroughs gave a non-committal shrug. "It might, it might not. I'll have to do some research on my own through the archives. Now, think you're up for some book learning about Prussia?" Seeing Michael nod, the Assassin slid some books across the table and began to lecture the recruit. "As you probably knew, Prussia at this time was a powerful state in central Europe, but how it got there is a political and military masterpiece…" And so it went. The Assassin recruits rotated through history and politics, the Animus, firearms, and unarmed combat. By the end of the first day, the recruits knew that it would not be easy. _For nothing in this world is free_, Michael thought, as he slipped off into sleep that night.

* * *

"Up, up, up! Your enemy won't wait for you to get back on your feet; you need to move NOW!" The accented English rang through the training room, as Michael rolled to avoid a kick to the head, sparring gear notwithstanding. Putting some distance between his opponent, Michael began to circle, but it wasn't enough. His opponent feinted left, and then came in on the right with a quick strike at his chest, followed by a knee to the stomach. Doubling over, Michael felt the coup d'grace delivered via a strike to the back, and down he went.

"My friend, fighting is always difficult. Expect that nothing will go your way." Looking up, Michael saw a hand extend down. Stifling a groan, the teenager accepted it and was hauled to his feet by Moreau, who wore an amused expression on his face. Moreau began to walk over to the sparring room's bench, and he motioned for the younger man to follow. Having no real choice, Michael followed, knowing that a lecture would be coming from the Frenchman.

"Once again, Michael, you seem to hesitate when you fight me. Why do you think that is?" Already, Michael knew what Moreau was going to talk about; if his training sessions had focused on anything, it was Michael's reluctance to fight hand to hand. "I will tell you why that is." Moreau stood, and began to slowly pace across the mats. Stifling a moment of irritation, Michael tried to pay attention.

"You have the determination within you, I can see that as clearly as I can this room," the instructor started, looking at Michael constantly. "You have the intelligence in your mind as well; I've heard you discussing history and politics with both your instructor and your fellow trainees. What you don't have, I think, is the heart needed for our profession. Do you know why?" Michael shook his head, a little confused. _This isn't how he normally goes about this…_

"Very well." Moreau sighed, and stood in front of Michael, arms crossed over his chest. "I have already told you about the psychological, how fighting is simply not natural for humans. You had already come over the barriers to that, for some reason, so I knew that this was not the challenge you posed. I think I have it now, though. Quite simply put, you are scared." Silence followed. Michael looked up at the Assassin in shock; cold eyes stared back at him. After a long moment, Michael's eyes fell to the floor. _Am I really scared? Was all that talk just to convince me that I was ready for the Corps?_ He suddenly felt small, weak, helpless. All his life, he had prepared himself to serve his country in the line of duty. Now, to hear the accusation that he was scared, a coward…

"Michael, _mon ami_, do not be stupid." Moreau dragged the chair next to Michael around and sat down, looking at the teenager. "Michael, listen to me. It is good that you are scared. If you were not, I would be liable to declare you a liar and an incompetent." Moreau grabbed Michael's chin and forced the boy's eyes up to look at him. "Being scared is a sign that you know what you are getting into. However, that must never go beyond the time leading up to a fight. Once you are in it, you must never let your emotions be visible to the enemy." Moreau relaxed his grip and allowed Michael to refocus a bit.

"It has been said that courage is being scared, yet doing what is needed at the right time. You have that potential, Michael, but right now you are paralyzed by your fear. You have the soul of a fighter, but you do not yet have the mindset needed for it. In time, this will emerge. However, the mindset of an Assassin comes about only through a crucible." Moreau looked at the watch he had on. "We are done here for today, Michael. Put your gear away and get cleaned up; dinner is in an hour." The instructor stood and walked out of the sparring room, leaving the metal door to close on Michael.

For a while, Michael merely sat there, not completely in tune with the world. _Scared. That's what they'll think of me from here on out. Shit._ The anger began to build in Michael, but it was not a quick and fast anger. Instead, it grew more slowly, more malevolently, as if one was steadily increasing the pressure of a gas inside an airtight container, Pascal by Pascal. At some point, the pressure will be too great, and something will have to give. With the anger building, bit by bit, Michael walked out of the training room, adopting the over-controlled motions of a man struggling with his emotions. As he approached the squad bay, he heard Brown's easy laugh echo off the walls, and could easily see Lara's look of disapproval. To the dismay of the teenage males, the Russian had not opened up; Brown had already taken to referring to her as the "Ice Queen".

"Hey, Michael! Get over here, we have to show you something!" Brown called out as soon as the American walked into the room. Holding up a hand stiffly, Michael cast a withering look at Brown and Georges, making it clear that he was not in the mood for any arguments. To his surprise, Lara was not there, but it was a passing thought. Proceeding down the hall to his room, he quickly opened the door and, once inside, just as quickly closed it. He could feel the anger raging around inside him, like a feral beast waiting to be let out of its cage. Slowly, he began to breathe, in an attempt to calm himself down. At first, it didn't seem like it was working; the stigma of being labeled a coward weighed too heavily upon him.

_If all else fails, breathe and count._ Ever so meticulously, he began to count mentally. _One…two…three…four…_As the count went higher, he felt his pulse begin to subside a bit, and his shoulders began to relax. _…Nine…ten…eleven…twelve…_By the time he had reached twenty-five, the anger had condensed and cooled down to a manageable level. It was still there, but he could at least function without it interfering with his actions. Rubbing his brow nervously, Michael began to change out of his sparring gear and into his utility uniform. _Was Schuler ever accused of cowardice? The man seems like a stone-cold killer._ Frowning in thought, he began to blouse his boots. _If he was, how did he react to it? Did he get angry, or did he keep a tight reign on his emotions?_ Ever since that first Animus session, he had refused to go back in, and instead had reviewed the recordings of the only session he had. Michael wanted to get a better sense of Schuler: What motivated him? Where did his loyalties lie? Who and what was important to him? How did he treat life, both the experience and the commodity? Those were questions he was still trying to understand, still trying to piece together. Finished with his boots, he stood and composed himself. He knew that he was in a foul mood, but he couldn't let that interfere with the team. Taking a few deep breaths, he opened the door and started back to the ready room.

"Get back here!" The scream caught him off guard, and the tone indicated a clear sense of anguish. More to the point, Michael thought that is sounded like a girl. Boots pounding on the floor, he ran into the large room and started looking around. The scene before him made him stop and mentally scratch his head. Richard was running away from Lara, clearly pleased with the state of affairs. Georges was doubled over with laughter, and it looked like he was having a hard time doing anything else. What attracted his attention, however, was Lara's face. It looked embarrassed, angry, and fearful all at once. That mixture of facial emotions screamed out at him, telling him that something was terribly wrong. This wasn't the joshing that the guys had participated in the first day; this was something much more personal, at least to Lara.

"Brown, stand down!" Michael shouted, attempting to make his voice boom across the room like Guttierez. The volume was there, certainly, but the ominous, commanding tone was not; Richard continued to run, and it was now that he saw something in the Englishman's hand, a piece of paper. _Is this a fight over a piece of paper?_ "Richard, stop!" His voice still had no effect, as the teenager turned around and began taunting Lara with the paper. _That's it._

There wasn't any hesitation, in contrast to Michael's fights with Moreau. Bounding across the room, he fully intended to knock Richard onto the ground. Getting behind the taller recruit, Michael extended his leg across both of Richard's, connecting with the backs of his knees. As Richard began to fall and windmill his arms, Michael's elbow shot out and rammed itself onto the recruit's solar plexus, accelerating Richard to slam onto the floor. Following through, Michael used the heel of his palm to knock the wind out of the Englishman, and as his hands flew to his chest, grabbed the piece of paper that was in them. Reading the first few words, he quickly realized what it was.

"Oh, not you too!" The harsh cry jolted Michael out of his zone, and he turned his head to look at Lara. To his surprise—and shock—she quickly recoiled from him, fear plainly written on her face, with no other emotions. Just plain fear, stark and unmistakable. _Why does she fear me? What have I done to her? _Cautiously, he held out the paper to her.

"I believe that this belongs to you, Lara." He said, deliberately making his voice quiet. Timidly, Lara stepped closer to him and snatched the paper out of his hand, holding it close to her. She reminded Michael of a girl who had just lost everything, she looked so miserable. Turning to Georges, he let a little fire enter his eyes and a bite into his voice. "Pick up Richard and get him to his quarters; I don't think he'll be wanting anything but rest for a while." Jumping a bit, the French recruit quickly did as Michael ordered, disappearing with Richard down the hallway. Breathing deeply, Michael felt the adrenaline rush begin to subside, and felt his knees go a bit weak. He saw Lara begin to walk away, and knew that it was a mistake. "Lara, stay here a while. I want to talk to you." Making his way over to a chair, he lowered himself into it, and motioned for the Russian to do the same. Nervously, she did so, unsure of what to do.

"Lara, listen to me." Michael started. "I don't care about how you carry yourself, or how you go about your training, but I do care about your interactions with teammates. What I just saw with that," he motioned to the paper, "That was not something that is normal for any team. What's going on, Lara? Why did you freak out like that?"

Michael wasn't sure if he had gone too far. He had posed the question bluntly, but he felt that it needed to be said. Lara's first reaction, he knew, would be indicative of her response. She sighed, and turned her head away from Michael, as if she didn't want to meet his eyes. Her face took on an embarrassed look, and a slight wave of her hand signaled dismissal of the matter.

"It was nothing; they just caught me at a bad time, and the paper belonged to me. I guess I overreacted." Michael didn't say anything; he thought that there was something else to the scene he had witnessed. He kept looking at her, waiting for her to say more. It was now a battle of wills, Lara's against Michael's.

"It was personal, something I always have with me." Lara said quietly, perhaps sensing that Michael wouldn't let go. "It's a poem. Its words give me reassurance when I need it, kind of like my own psychiatrist, I suppose. I didn't want any of you finding out, but…" Lara's voice caught, and she stopped. Michael knew he had to tread cautiously.

"From someone close to you, I take it?" The question caused Lara to look up at him, and Michael saw that her eyes were a bit watery. "There was a dedication at the start, but I didn't read any further." He felt that it was important he told her this; if this was truly important to her, it would be like a violation of her soul if he had read it without permission.

"_Da_. My…my mother wrote it for me." Lara stopped and looked away from the American again; like before, Michael said nothing. If she wanted to open up, she would open up. If she didn't want to, he wouldn't press, but he knew that it would be better if she did. "My mother was a poet in her own right. Not particularly famous, you see, but moderately so in Moscow. Yet, she always remembered me, always made time to be a mother. She used to write little rhymes for me when I was younger, and I was always happy to read them." Lara's eyes began to lose focus, as if she was remembering her past.

"She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was ten. It was too late to really do anything for her; it was caught too far along. Before she died, she wrote one last poem for me. It wasn't a few lines and a few stanzas; it was an entire canto, part of her last work. Before she typed it up, she gave me the final written poem, in English, telling me to keep it. She died a few weeks later." Lara fell silent, and Michael leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap.

_Man, that's rough. Losing your mother at such a young age…She must really be strong not to break down._ Losing someone close was always rough; Michael had seen his father cry when one of his Marine buddies had died in a car crash. But, to lose a parent…that was probably the ultimate loss anyone could suffer. He felt like patting Lara on the shoulder, maybe even hugging her, but he was unsure how she would react. For all he knew, she hated physical contact.

"I think I understand why you acted the way you did. I can't say that I approve of how you went about it, but I can see the emotions behind it." Michael looked at Lara, knowing that even if she wasn't looking at him, she was still hearing him. "Everyone needs a source of strength and courage. Richard might not understand it, but not everyone can be strong all the time. If that poem is your source, I have no problem with it. I want you to explain to those two that the poem _is _personal, though. You don't have to say what you said to me; just make it clear that some things are best left private." Still, Lara refused to look at him. Sighing softly, Michael stood up, knowing that the conversation was probably over.

"Michael, I…I don't know what to say." Michael turned around and saw Lara looking up at him. The tears were gone, but the sadness was still visible in her eyes. Michael held up his hand in a warning gesture.

"You don't need to say anything. We're a team; we look out for each other. That's what we do." For Michael, he felt that he didn't have to explain further. Apparently, Lara seemed to agree with him, as she simply nodded and stood up, walking back to her quarters. Watching her leave, Michael couldn't help but feel a pang of concern run through him. _She tries to be strong, she tries to hide her emotions, but she winds up hurting herself. Kind of like me._ Michael ran a hand down his face; the burst of anger and counseling had made him more fatigued than he had realized. He thought he had finally found an answer to Moreau, though.

_If someone or something I value is under attack, I lose my fear. When I lose my fear, I don't hold back, and can succeed where I fail._ A small grin spread across the young man's face. He would operate in the field with his team, and if his team came under attack, the training would take precedence over the fear. All because he felt that his team was more important than himself.


End file.
